In the Name of Power
by Arallion
Summary: They say that power corrupts, and that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Yet who shall call into question the actions of those who use power in the name of God...? Winner: best drama, best technical skill, SakuraCon 2007
1. The Errant Knight

**Title: **In the Name of Power

**By: **S. Arallion

Based loosely on the anime series "Trinity Blood" _(originally crafted as a novel by Yoshida Sunao, character design by THORES Shibamoto; turned into manga by Kiyo Kuujou and most recently developed into an anime series produced by GONZO)_

**Disclaimer:** All characters in this story are owned by their respective copyright holders and authorized licensors —namely, not myself. Anything you don't recognize is my fault. I make absolutely no profit from my use of these characters. -- Arallion

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Part 1: The Errant Knight

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Father Abel Nightroad pulled his cloak tighter around his narrow shoulders, batting away a long strand of silver hair that seemed intent on snaking around from behind him and tickling his nose. It was unseasonably cold, _ungeographically_ cold even – if that were a word, which it probably was not, he mused absently, glad for once of the dark woolen fabric of his traveling gear. Usually he was panting from the heat at this point of his return journey. Lost in thought, he set down his bags and reached out a gloved hand to push open the gold-filigreed wrought iron gates that marked Cardinal Sforza's compound.

"Halt," a deep voice commanded from behind him, and Abel swung around, his eyebrows arched in perplexity.

_Now how did this happen? Was I really paying that little attention? _

He found himself flanked completely by wary-looking guards from the Bureau of Inquisition, their insignias prominently displayed, weapons not _quite_ threatening him, but ominously readied. From the crowd, a familiar steel-blue stare pinned him to the spot, as the Chief Inquisitor, Brother Petros, stepped forward.

"What can I do for you, Brother Petros?" Abel offered before the other man could open his mouth again, allowing his confusion – and hopefully, innocence – to show. He couldn't imagine what he might have done this time to get on the Inquisition's bad side. He hadn't even cost the Vatican any damages on this trip, and was actually looking forward to seeing Caterina's shocked expression when he delivered his unaccustomedly squeaky-clean report.

Brother Petros' narrow face was even more inscrutable than usual, as he unrolled a long piece of parchment and held it before himself. "Father Abel Nightroad, it is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest, for violation of the following Holy Ordinances..." He began to read down the list, grimly.

_Under arrest!_ The rest of the words were a blur, although he caught a mention of something that had happened several years ago when he'd first started with AX, and _surely_ he remembered that had been cleared from his record… after all, it hadn't _exactly_ been his fault…

Abel gaped at the Chief Inquisitor in stunned silence, until finally two of the guards moved and the glint of steel manacles caught his eyes. He took an involuntary step backward, raising his hands in alarm as weapons shifted. "Oh, come now, there's no need for that – I'll go with you, but I'm sure there must be some mistake – "

Petros rolled up the writ briskly and returned it to a pocket inside his overcoat. "I'm sorry, Father Nightroad, but it _is_ regulation. Hold out your hands please."

Abel threw Petros his best pleading glance, but wasn't overly surprised when the man ignored it. "Ah… well, all right then…"

He winced as the guards clipped the steel circlets around his gloved wrists, and then twitched as one guard felt around the edges of the manacles, testing to make sure they were secure. The man gave him a stern and suspicious look as he covered his discomfiture with a cough. "Sorry… that tickles," the AX priest explained meekly.

Petros rolled his eyes and gave a microscopic sigh – which Abel only noticed because he was looking for it. And then, because he was looking, and Petros apparently _knew_ he was looking, the other man's lips moved, almost indiscernibly.

_Fran…cesco?_

He felt the blood drain from his cheeks and hurriedly shifted in his bonds to ensure that his sudden pallor was blamed on a pinch from the steel instead. So, this had nothing to do with the spurious and long-buried charges on Petros' list at all. But what on earth could di Medici expect to accomplish by detaining him, specifically? Or perhaps he'd just happened along at the wrong time…?

_Interesting._

"Father Nightroad."

The voice was familiar, and welcome. Abel twisted in the loose grip of the guards to look back through the gate into Cardinal Sforza's compound, his original destination. Advancing purposefully down the walk was another man dressed in the sober black, white-trimmed garb of a priest, with the notable additions of steel shoulder plates and AX symbol gleaming in the cold, pale sunlight. A shock of copper hair blew in the chill breeze like a flag, as the emotionless voice continued. "You are required to report to Cardinal Sforza immediately upon your return. Is there a problem?" A glint of red appeared in one eye.

Instinctively Abel began to raise his hands in a placating gesture, but the soft clink of the cuffs and the tightening of the guards' grip on his arms stopped him. He settled for a rather awkward flopping motion, and interjected before the scowling Chief Inquisitor had a chance to say anything. "Father Tres! Er… it appears there's been a bit of a misunderstanding. Would you please tell her Excellency that I'll get that report to her just as soon as I can…?" Pleading. Helpless. Disarming. Pathetic. _Come on, Tres… let me plant that suspicion._

Tres stared at him briefly – and he could practically feel the assessing gaze travel over his person – before nodding, eyes narrow. "Affirmative. I will tell her Excellency to expect your report… later."

"Oh, and Tres – let her know that I give my regards to her brother." It was clumsy, really not up to AX standards, but he hadn't planned for this eventuality at all and it was definitely a way to tell what side Petros was going to come down on. Tres nodded in his usual, clipped fashion.

"Affirmative." Steel-shod boots neatly clicked together as the android turned on his heel and strode quickly back up the walk towards the building. And Petros –

Petros' demeanor was nearly as calm as the android's, and he made no motion to detain Tres – which Abel _knew_ must have been against orders, because the guards around him actually looked more worried than he did. "Come along then," the Chief Inquisitor remarked blandly, and like a switch had been flipped, the guards were suddenly all business as if nothing at all amiss had occurred.

So. Although Petros was ostensibly doing his job, he must have enough concern about the circumstances to allow word of what was happening to leak to AX, and thus Caterina. At least that was some comfort – he wouldn't be whisked away to some dark dungeon with no one the wiser.

Nevertheless, Abel couldn't help looking back wistfully at the retreating figure of Tres as the guards prodded him into motion.

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The section of the Vatican where the Inquisition did their work was not one of Abel's favorite places. It was damp, cold and decidedly lacking in windows, not to mention the interior décor left much to be desired. However, they'd passed beyond all the areas Abel was familiar with about five minutes ago and they were still walking. Currently they were moving down a long hallway lit only with sparse ceiling fixtures, with no visible side-doors or passages, only a large, arching, steel-bound door at the end. Their footsteps echoed strangely, giving the AX priest even more of a sense of foreboding.

"Brother Petros… where are you taking me?" he ventured anxiously, but was suddenly jerked to a halt by his escort. They had reached the door.

The sleek fall of steel-blue hair ahead of him shifted, and Petros' sharp features were profiled against the darkness of the rough wood. The Chief Inquisitor's gauntleted hand locked around his wrist. "Leave us," he intoned calmly, pulling a key from his coat. "I will handle things from here."

The guard contingent saluted and retreated back down the hall, as Petros inserted the large, iron key into the lock on the door. Abel stared over his shoulder at them in quiet bemusement until he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Petros watching him patiently next to the open door, with another long hallway beyond.

"Abandon hope, all ye who enter here?" Abel quipped halfheartedly, shivering a bit as he walked through the entrance. The build of this hall looked hauntingly familiar, sleek and chill and not at all like the rest of the complex.

"Indeed," Petros' voice echoed as the door closed with an ominous thud behind them. "You know, Father Nightroad, you could at least have done us the courtesy of leaving your manacles fastened."

Abel shot him a dismayed look and clasped his hands together sheepishly. "Sorry. They were chafing."

"Hmm." Petros didn't look amused. They continued to walk.

"Er… Brother, you didn't happen to answer my earlier question… where are we going?"

Petros favored him with another brief glance. "Nightroad, you know I can't answer that."

"Ahhaha of course not…" Abel laughed nervously, lifting his hands in a submissive gesture, then clasping them tightly together again in front of himself as Petros glared. "Right. Sorry."

"Stop apologizing," the Chief Inquisitor snorted.

"Sorry – ah, of course."

"You're doing that to irritate me, aren't you." It wasn't a question.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Brother Petros," Abel replied piously, glancing at the other priest and somewhat heartened to see a faint smirk lurking about the other's lips. In truth, he hadn't meant it that way, although Petros was so serious and he was so _desperately_ worried by now that he supposed it had indeed been a subconscious attempt to lighten the mood.

This hallway did have doors, although not many, and they too were of a familiar design; lacking any obvious knobs or hinges, purely smooth, oddly angled depressions in the walls surrounded by steel frames. They stopped in front of one at last, and Abel gave his companion a curious look. Petros ignored it, and pressed his palm to a small panel on the wall. The depressed section of wall slid upward with a slight hiss, and the dark opening beyond lit faintly with a blue light.

Abel hesitated, although it was obvious he was expected to enter. "Brother Petros – "

The other priest avoided his gaze, bowing his head slightly. "Please don't ask me what is going on, Nightroad. If I knew, which I don't, I couldn't tell you."

"So… inside then, I take it?"

"If you would."

The incongruity of their conversation almost made the silver-haired priest chuckle, despite his situation. "There's nothing… er… dangerous in there, is there?"

Petros raised an eyebrow. "Nothing you can't handle, I expect."

Abel stared at him for a long moment, but finally lowered his gaze. "Well, then. I hope this is resolved soon."

"As do I," the Inquisitor muttered. "I'm sorry, Nightroad."

He managed a wan smile in response, stepping through the doorway. "Brother Petros?"

"Hmm?"

"Stop apologizing."

The door closed between them, leaving Petros to shake his head wearily as he walked away.

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_(Author's Note: This chapter has been re-uploaded to fix a couple of errors - Petros is now appropriately ranked as "Brother", the spelling of Lady Caterina's name has been adapted to reflect the US anime version's published spelling, and the spelling of Francesco's last name has been fixed – 'di Medici'.)_


	2. The Castle Shift

**Title: **In the Name of Power

**By: **S. Arallion

Based loosely on the anime series "Trinity Blood" _(originally crafted as a novel by Yoshida Sunao, character design by THORES Shibamoto; turned into manga by Kiyo Kuujou and most recently developed into an anime series produced by GONZO)_

**Disclaimer:** All characters in this story are owned by their respective copyright holders and authorized licensors —namely, not myself. Anything you don't recognize is my fault. I make absolutely no profit from my use of these characters. -- Arallion

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Part 2: The Castle Shift

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Cardinal Caterina Sforza, Duchess of Milan and Chief Minister of Holy Affairs, was not an easy person to infuriate.

One of the few women to hold a seat of major influence in the Vatican, she cultivated an outward appearance of impeccable calm and grace. Only a few had seen her annoyed, and fewer still had seen her upset or distraught. In the convoluted game of religion and governance that formed the Basilica, emotion was a weakness to be exploited. Therefore, to the eyes of the Basilica, she showed none.

In the beginning, such control had been a difficult act to maintain; a long evening of arguments would of necessity be followed by a swift retreat to her chambers to "work". Her face grimly set until the door closed and locked behind her, she would then collapse weeping into her bed, crushed under the seeming hopelessness of reaching an accord between stubborn, fundamentalist old men…

Of late, however, she no longer did so. It was not because the decisions, the battles, had gotten easier to deal with. Far from it – they became fiercer and more malicious with each passing day. Instead, she feared that she had personally changed, become harder, colder; as glacial as the façade she maintained.

At least the current situation had proven _that_ concern unfounded. She was fairly certain she'd never been _this_ angry in her life. In fact, the moment Tres had finished relaying the information regarding Abel's "detainment", he'd had to turn down his audio sensors at the volume of her reaction, and the lone acolyte whom she allowed to serve her scurried out of the room with an armful of priceless breakables, just for safety's sake. It had taken the entire thirty minutes between first hearing the news and the arrival of the official summons for her to regain control over her outrage, and even now, thirty minutes after that, her step was a bit more forceful than normal.

The event in itself would not have been completely out of place, as the hapless Father Nightroad _did_ tend to rub the more straight-laced elements of the Vatican entirely the wrong way. She'd had to duck and dodge the letter of doctrine quite frequently to keep him out of trouble – but only slightly more often than she had to for the other members of her department. Being a touch over the line just seemed to come with the territory, she realized. But this time… Usually the charges against him were at least reasonable. These were, plainly put, ridiculous.

Caterina had dressed in her full regalia for the inevitable confrontation, scarlet vestments and gold-trimmed cope swirling the chill air as she swept through the halls of the Vatican, headed for the offices of her half-brother Francesco, the Duke of Florence. In her wake strode two men dressed in militaristic clerical attire – two men whom she trusted with her life, if not her soul.

Both were members of the Ministry of Holy Affairs' Secret Service, called the "AX", but they stood in sharp contrast to each other. To her right, watchful and silent, walked Tres Iqus, also known as the "Killing Doll" android HC-IIIX. Looking calm and alert as usual, he would serve as both bodyguard and recorder of whatever resulted from the meeting. To her left walked the slightly rumpled and distracted "Professor", William Walter Wordsworth, carrying a sheaf of legal documentation that he'd somehow managed to gather within the hour since she'd informed him of their problem. Normally Caterina wouldn't have asked them to join her for anything so banal as a yelling match with her brother, but she had an uneasy sense that this was not the same as their other recent, territorial battles.

The Cardinal's lips thinned faintly. There was something rotten in Rome.

Abel would have smirked at her bastardization of the ancient classical prose, and then chastised her for being irreverent, although she knew he was equally guilty of such transgressions… The hallway blurred suddenly in her vision. She blinked, hard, and then firmed her expression, chin lifting defiantly in preparation for the challenge ahead.

"It will be all right, my lady."

Startled, she glanced to her left, to meet William's sea-blue eyes, his expression reassuring. "I certainly hope so, William. It's been one trying mission after another, however. I pray that this is not the event that breaks him."

"Father Nightroad is built to withstand far worse than what the Inquisition will be allowed to accomplish in their standard interrogation procedures," Tres interjected briskly – and a little defensively, Caterina thought, if he had been human. She saw William's eyebrow arch in surprise, and knew she was not alone in that interpretation.

"I wasn't referring to physical trauma, dear Tres," she clarified mildly, glancing to her right and catching the barest hint of a crease between the android's auburn eyebrows as he processed that remark. "He's been pushing very hard as of late, and what with other concerns…"

"Understood."

The Cardinal sighed. She wasn't certain that the android _really_ understood, but it would take more time than she had to explain to him the vagaries of how humans dealt with emotions, and the consequences of _not_ dealing with them – something Abel was quite familiar with, to his detriment... She shook her head to clear it of such thoughts. They had almost reached her brother's official chambers, and it was time to focus on their objective.

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The moment the door slid shut behind him, Abel backed up against it, letting his eyes adjust to the blue, artificial twilight ambience in the room. His nose wrinkled slightly at the bitter scent of old antiseptic that permeated the air, tinged with a more recent pall of fear-sweat and blood. To add to the discomfort, a strange, low-frequency thrumming resonated through the room's surfaces, rumbling down his spine and up through his boots. He would have expected this to signal the functioning of some nearby equipment, but as his vision sharpened in the dimness, he could see nothing that might cause it.

The room itself was circular, almost domed; smooth walled with reflective panels high on the upper curve of the wall. To one side, another reflective panel glinted above a narrow shelf, desk height but barely wide enough for a writing surface. To the other side, a raised platform covered with a thin mattress stuck out from the wall, thankfully not curved.

It was, as he'd expected, an observation room. Typical of the pre-Armageddon laboratories, designed and originally maintained with what the humans of this age now called "Lost Technology" (despite the fact that they did everything in their power to _find_ it these days, a dry voice in the back of his mind interjected). Rooms like this had once been used to monitor patient reactions to experimental medicine or treatments, or simply to allow for solitary recuperation, although this particular room had obviously been converted for the Inquisition's own purposes. He wondered briefly how they'd gotten their hands on it, as he couldn't remember a lab being located in Rome.

As he stood in this one, old memories bubbled up, quite against his will; _Don't_ _worry, little Abel – there won't be any needles this time… _They'd always lied. Of course, it wasn't just the thought of getting poked and prodded with needles that had sent him running through the hallways (a futile effort, because there was nowhere to go except around and around and around the complex, but he'd always run anyway) – it was the other things that happened. Stress tests, patterned lights, antigravity fields, sudden depressurization; he never knew what it was going to be, but it was nearly always manifestly unpleasant.

_It's only practice_, they'd say. Or, when he'd caught on to the reality of the situation: _It's just a few tests._

_Five more minutes_, he'd begged, panting, still running, hoping beyond reason that this time they'd forget, just let him go…

With a reflexive shudder, Abel drew himself up and stepped away from the door, a bit surprised at how strong the urge still was to glare sullenly at the panels above. His captors wouldn't expect him to know what they were. It was probable that someone was monitoring his actions through those windows, and he didn't want to give them anything too strange to report. _Just act normal…_ _ehh_… He blinked and pushed his spectacles up on his nose, realizing that "normal" actually meant that he should look a bit more terrified. Belatedly, he wrung his gloved hands together in apprehension and tried to stare around the room as if he'd never seen anything like it before.

Upon further inspection, the room did appear to have some oddities. At the farthest point of the room from the doorway was a dark heap of something… possibly fabric, although it was unidentifiable in the shadows. He raised an eyebrow and approached –

– and then stopped abruptly, as the pile _moved_, and a faint whimper of pain or fear emanated from it.

_What on earth…?_

Abel swallowed with difficulty, suddenly keenly aware of the scent of blood and where it had to be coming from. The pile of cloth was now shivering violently, a huddle of once-fine jacquard and wool and silk noil, now ripped and stained; tattered remnants of Methuselah vanity. As he took a more oblique approach, circling around to the side of the terrified form, he saw a pale, manicured hand clutch the fabric closer. Luminous eyes peered up at him from the shadows.

He stopped again, despite himself this time, for there was a queer tremor in his nerves at confirmation of what the other was. The sensation was familiar, but entirely out of place; normally this sort of thing only happened when he had been seriously injured, or when he consciously allowed it to occur. Yet for whatever reason, the Crusnik nanomachines were stirring within him unbidden, making his awareness of the other's weakened state a literal _itch_ under his skin, a hunger impulse that urged him none-too-gently to satiate himself _now_ –

Horrified, the priest froze, realizing that every muscle in his body was tensed to pounce, and not a lick of it had been his doing. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he carefully relaxed his limbs, trembling with the effort it was taking to regain control. Meanwhile the Methuselah stared at him blankly, like a wild animal caught in a searchlight.

Catching his breath, Abel stared back for a long moment, considering.

His expression of panic had probably been observed, but he could hope that it would be interpreted as the simple survival instinct of a human when faced with a predator. Never mind that he'd been distinctly angled forward, not away from the threat… no, he didn't want to think about that. He tapped his gloved fingers against his lips in contemplation, and then winced, feeling telltale ragged edges at the fingertips.

So it had gone that far… and he hadn't even been aware.

It was beyond logic to hope that that little lapse hadn't been observed. And the Methuselah's reaction implied that he – or she, Abel still couldn't tell - understood exactly what had occurred, scuttling rapidly away from him as best as the curve of the wall would allow.

Already prepared for the sharp prod of adrenaline that encouraged him to chase down this hastily fleeing prey, the priest simply sat down, hard, on the floor. The jolt of pain up his spine effectively silenced the unwelcome impulses of the Crusnik. Feeling a bit more in control (although with a decidedly sore tailbone) he folded his long legs into an awkwardly crossed position, then draped his arms over his knees and slumped forward wearily. He glanced over at the heap of cloth-swathed Methuselah, noting that it had somehow managed to draw itself up even smaller than before; pressed into the closest thing the room had to offer as a "corner", the junction between the wall and the bed support.

"Hello?" he offered meekly. _A bit late for that, maybe_, he realized, as the heap twitched in alarm.

An uncomfortable silence fell, broken only by the incessant low-frequency drone. Abel sighed and shifted position. It had been annoying enough vibrating through his boots – actually sitting on the floor made it that much worse. Still, as things were, he thought it might be wiser to maintain a relaxed stance, preferably one that would be hard to rise quickly from… at least until he figured out what was going on.

"Ah…" he ventured again finally, "So. What are you in for?"

The huddled form stilled with an intake of breath, giving the silence an incredulous timbre. After a long moment the fabric shifted enough that the Methuselah's glimmering eyes reappeared, staring at him with violet-hued wariness. There was a muffled sniff, and then a ragged, female voice muttered, "That is the most ridiculous question I've ever heard."

"Perhaps," Abel returned, lacing his fingers together in front of him with a tentative smile. "But I'm glad you're well enough to remark on that."

The Methuselah emitted a noise that was part snarl, part cough. "Well enough. How droll. I wouldn't have thought your sort would care what condition we were in." A long-fingered, pale hand pulled the tattered cowl closer as the priest stared in dismay.

_Your sort_… so perhaps this meant that the other really _did_ know what he was, and the reaction had been more than instinctive. Possibly a Fleur de Mal member, who had been captured for questioning by the Inquisition? He had been assigned to enough missions dealing with them that it was likely rumor had gotten around… But then again, she could just be referring to his position as a priest of the Vatican. He sighed again, shaking his head. "I'm sorry… let's start again. I'm Father Abel Nightroad. And you are… ?"

The glittering eyes narrowed warily. "What are you trying to do?"

"Er… make conversation?" he returned, as brightly as he could under the circumstances. The answer seemed to confuse her, the long coat she had pulled up over her head shaking in a dismayed fashion.

"You… you're not at all what I expected," she responded in a weak voice after a moment. "They told me… they told me to make my peace with my God when they brought me in here." The coat slipped down a bit, revealing pale skin and bedraggled blonde hair, tinted a sickly color in the faint blue light that washed the room. Her brow was creased sharply as she glanced at him sidelong. "I thought I would be dead by now."

Abel shivered at the bleakly curious tone in her voice. "Who told you that?"

She shrugged, a hint of asperity creeping into her tone. "The men that dragged me in here. Filthy, cowardly Terrans that didn't even have the courtesy to let me see the faces of my captors."

The priest's eyebrow quirked in momentary amusement. With the imminent fear of death out of the way, she sounded a bit like his Methuselah acquaintance, Astharoshe, the Duchess of Kiev. "Well, I don't know why they would frighten you that way. It doesn't appear that anything in this room could hurt _you_." A little ego-stroking worked wonders on Lady Astharoshe; perhaps it would work in this instance as well.

He shrank back, however, at her bitter smile. "Don't toy with me, Father," she sighed. "I know exactly what you are. _Crusnik_…"

And there it was, right out in the open. One question answered – she'd been informed of, or knew already, what he was. He lowered his gaze sadly. Now, if only he knew _why_.

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	3. The Failed Pawn

**Title: **In the Name of Power

**By: **S. Arallion

Based loosely on the anime series "Trinity Blood" _(originally crafted as a novel by Yoshida Sunao, character design by THORES Shibamoto; turned into manga by Kiyo Kuujou and most recently developed into an anime series produced by GONZO)_

**Disclaimer:** All characters in this story are owned by their respective copyright holders and authorized licensors —namely, not myself. Anything you don't recognize is my fault. I make absolutely no profit from my use of these characters. - Arallion

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Part 3: The Failed Pawn

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William Walter Wordsworth, or 'Professor', as his comrades at AX referred to him, considered himself to be a genteel and erudite individual. He was also gifted, if he did say so himself, with more than sufficient intelligence to see through nearly any scheme the political forces of the Vatican, Albion, the Empire or even the Order of Rosenkreutz could come up with – provided, of course, that he was given enough data to work with. In this case, however, data was severely lacking.

Despite his close connection with Cardinal Sforza and Father Abel Nightroad, he knew that there were still many things that they left him in the dark about. This in itself was not a problem – he had found it a unique challenge to try and solve the mystery of the Crusnik on his own, within the bounds of reason and politeness of course. But he wondered if that lack of information would cause them trouble now. For example, although he'd often wondered if the Crusnik would be considered a valuable weapon to some, he couldn't see how anyone could actually _use_ it without Abel's full cooperation. Plus, they'd done as much as they could in the AX to mask Abel's more… _spectacular _contributions… and as far as William knew, they'd never attracted overt attention. Still, there had to be some way Francesco had gathered as much material as he had.

He'd not mentioned his concern to Caterina yet, hoping to pick up more information during the hearing. But so far, he'd only been treated to examples of the breadth of di Medici's knowledge – not where that knowledge had come from.

He and Tres were relegated to holding up the wall in Cardinal Francesco's office, while the man himself barraged their superior with heaps of neatly organized file folders documenting cases the Inquisition had apparently been holding open on Abel for years. It was clear that Caterina was holding onto her temper by the slimmest of threads. William personally was gritting his teeth, his normally pleasant expression stiff and fixed, as if plastered onto his face. At least Tres was there to capture the conversation without bias, and perhaps later he would be able to analyze it with a clearer head.

Meanwhile, Caterina and her half-brother were fencing.

"All the reports and footage we have gathered indicate clearly that Nightroad is unable to maintain consistent control over this… _power…_ that he has been granted," Francesco continued, his long, narrow face expressing nothing but grim, dedicated concern. "It is evident that he must be kept on a tight leash, especially if His Holiness continues with his intentions to consolidate a pact with the New Human Empire. And, dear sister, if I may say so, the leash you've given him is regrettably long. Under those circumstances we could never afford an incident such as the one in Carthage, where the Empire's messenger was nearly… _devoured._"

Caterina clenched her jaw before the words "_so it sounds as if you've grown fonder of the Methuselah_" slipped past her lips. "Well, brother, I cannot disagree that some of the incidents in which he's been involved have gotten a bit… shall we say… messy? But I am also obliged to note that situations involving the Inquisition have been equally problematic to our relations with the Empire."

Francesco's shoulders raised in an elegant shrug. "That's as may be, but at least we can be certain of where the Inquisition's loyalties lie, whereas Father Nightroad appears to have several questionable relationships among our enemies."

Caterina raised an eyebrow. "Oh come now, dear brother, certainly you haven't forgotten what the phrase 'covert operations' implies? The best source of information is nearly always from the opposition. And, as you implied earlier, we cannot exactly consider these people our enemies any longer."

"As well for you, Caterina," Francesco sniffed. "Or you might have been put under investigation yourself."

"Oh, stop," she snapped, setting down her teacup with a clatter. "I've _been_ under investigation, for the most spurious of charges. If you're thinking to alarm me this is the wrong way to go about it."

They glared at each other for a long moment. Francesco was the first to look away, with a sneer. "Nevertheless, the point stands. In this day, Caterina, we need our weapons to be completely reliable. And _yours_, no matter how much you may _like_ him, is _not_."

Caterina picked her teacup back up and took a sip, allowing the twinge of anger at his insinuation to subside. Then she smiled wryly. "As reliable as that 'missile' you discovered a few years ago?" she said mildly, pretending not to notice the violent start her brother gave as the subject of his abortive attempt at harnessing Lost Technology was raised.

"That _should_ have worked," Francesco began, his tone harsh and defensive. Surprisingly, however, he caught himself, taking a deep breath and shaking his head; dismissing the touchy subject almost as smoothly as Caterina had earlier. "At any rate, I have made a contact that will assist in our future endeavors towards that end. Albion will no longer be the only power with Lost Technology expertise…" He trailed off, expression abruptly thoughtful. "Perhaps you should meet him. I expect that you might benefit from his wealth of knowledge as well." He pulled one of several slender cords at the wall behind his desk, and resumed his seat. "He should be here in just a moment. Would you care for more tea?"

Caterina blinked at the rapid transition of subjects. "Well… certainly. Thank you, brother." Curiously, she watched as Francesco poured, looking suddenly far too pleased with himself.

"Ah, thank you for joining us, my esteemed associate," Francesco nodded over her shoulder at the opening door. As she turned in her chair to see who was entering, she took note of both Tres and William, the latter of which had leaned forward slightly in anticipation. "Lady Caterina, please greet the Vatican's new Lost Technology expert, Sir Isaak von –"

"Kämpfer…" Caterina finished with him, feeling the blood drain from her face, and suddenly very grateful that as a lady she did not have to rise when someone else entered a room. Surely this was not the second-in-command of the Order of Rosenkreutz striding forward calmly across the woven rugs, his dark eyes meeting her frosty stare with a hint of a smirk as he bowed graciously over her hand. And yet… it was. His touch was cool, and she only barely managed to keep from wiping her hand on her stole when he relinquished it. _He didn't even bother to disguise himself… _

Francesco raised an eyebrow, apparently not noticing a thing out of place. "Ah, you have met, then?"

"We've been introduced," Caterina replied coolly, quickly regaining her composure as Kämpfer took a seat in the chair to her right, only a faint smirk betraying his continuing amusement. There was a rustle from the wall, and she darted a glance in that direction to see that William had taken a step forward, tense and worried. Tres was staring intently at the newcomer, but he had not yet drawn his weapons, an unusual concession to subtlety. At a faint shake of her head, William returned to his original position, although he didn't appear pleased with the situation. She wasn't exactly sanguine about it herself; the fact that her brother had actually made an agreement with a '_heathen_ _vampire'_ (and someone from the Order of Rosenkreutz, no less) was racing around in her mind like a small dog on a short leash… _Perhaps my earlier thoughts were not so far-fetched!_

"Ah, good. At any rate, Sir Isaak is originally from Albion; he requested sanctuary in exchange for his services. I find it more than a fair trade," Francesco continued with a hint of admiration in his tone. He met Caterina's incredulous glance with a smile. "Oh come now, don't worry. His reasons for leaving are personal, not political."

Caterina didn't bother to correct his misinterpretation of her expression. How she wished for the assistance of Sister Noelle about now, with her uncanny ability to sense the auras of others…

"Indeed," Isaak was smiling unctuously, pushing a long, sleek lock of dark hair back over his shoulder with a negligent air. "My skills were not being challenged enough in the Ghetto, and when Queen Esther granted us the right to leave as we wished, I merely took advantage of the opportunity. I look forward to helping the Vatican improve its mastery of the Lost Technologies." Caterina's skin prickled as his gaze traversed her form. "I am most pleased to be able to make your acquaintance once more, Lady Caterina."

She stared back at him narrowly, sipping her tea. _If he wants to play… well, I suppose I must play along. _"I will say the circumstances are somewhat more pleasant." Isaak's eyes widened, and then a slight grin curved his lips, allowing one fang to show. She ignored it with an effort. "But, Brother Francesco, I must insist that we resolve our earlier discussion. You are still holding my agent, and you have yet to give me sufficient evidence that he should be imprisoned."

Di Medici's face fell back into its grim lines. "You speak truth, sister. And I will be glad to return Father Nightroad to your custody if he proves himself capable. I've had a test prepared, you see – it should not harm him in the slightest, don't look at me like that – but it will allow him to prove his control to us without excessive damage to the environment."

Caterina held herself rigid, but her eyes were alight with anger. All concerns about her brother's strange associations were buried under this new outrage. "Brother, am I to understand that you are using Lost Technology to run _tests_ _on my agent_?"

"In a manner of speaking," Francesco nodded, blithely ignoring her ire. "As I said, it is the only way to allow him to exercise his powers without potential harm to others. If we are to test his control at all, I would expect that to be your top concern as well. Am I wrong?"

Caterina's eyes darted to Isaak briefly, but his expression gave away nothing. _Still… this is why you're here, isn't it. But what are you getting out of it…? _"I would prefer that any 'tests' be handled by my own department, not the Inquisition. And yes, I do hold the safety of others in highest regard, but I am also concerned for his welfare. How do you know that this is safe for him, without being an expert in the technology yourself?"

Francesco waved a hand. "Dear Caterina, I've had it tested by my own soldiers. I assure you, it's merely a room designed to contain the release of high amounts of energy."

She set the teacup and saucer down with a firm clatter on her brother's desk, meeting his gaze with a defiant toss of her head. "I insist that you allow me to see him."

Francesco looked down his nose at her with a thoughtful smile. "Of course. I was just going to invite you to view the interrogation." The offhanded acknowledgment stunned and silenced Caterina, and Francesco walked past her to the door. "Will you join me, dear sister? Sir Isaak, if you would excuse us."

"Of course, your Grace, my Lady." The tall Methuselah unfolded from the chair and bowed over Caterina's hand again, smiling briefly. "I do hope that all goes well. I'll await your word."

William watched anxiously as Caterina's eyes narrowed and her lips looked to be struggling not to form the snarl that he knew she'd picked up from the Crusnik himself. But she managed to control her expression, striding regally past her brother into the hallway as he held the door in false gallantry. Tres followed quickly, as Francesco was flanked by two of his personal guards outside the door, but William lingered in the doorway a moment, glancing back as the 'Methuselah' retreated through the other door.

"Wordsworth."

William narrowed his eyes. "Von Kämpfer. What's with the fangs, old boy?"

Said fangs were displayed in an unpleasant smirk. "Now that would be telling. You'd best hurry. I don't believe you'll want to miss this." He slipped through the door, leaving the Professor alone in the room.

There was nothing else to be done. "Damn it all." William slapped his hand against the doorjamb in impotent frustration, then turned to see that the others were already well down the hallway. He broke into a slow jog after them, covertly tapping his seldom-used AX earpiece and then juggling his papers and files conveniently in front of his face. "Sister Kate, come in. We have a problem."

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The blonde Methuselah had been staring at Abel for a long time in silence, and he'd become rather used to it, lost in his own thoughts. It came as a surprise when she finally spoke. "So tell me, Father. Why are you here? Your reaction makes me think this is more than a simple execution of a 'vampire terrorist'."

Abel focused on her, blinking owlishly and pushing his spectacles back up his nose. "Why - ? I… I'm not sure, really," he replied in a soft tone. "I suppose I've irritated someone that I shouldn't have."

Of course, that was too simple of an explanation. For one thing, he couldn't think of a single person he'd irritated that would involve Cardinal Francesco and the Bureau of Inquisition in his punishment. As far as the majority of the Vatican departments went, he'd always thought he'd managed to represent himself fairly well. The worst he could be accused of was irresponsibility with his belongings, and possibly someone outside AX could have been annoyed by his frequent clumsiness and absentmindedness – but that couldn't be cause for imprisonment, could it? Even his performance reports had been relatively innocuous, thanks to some judicious massaging of text by Caterina before they were given along with a sheaf of paperwork to the Vatican records keepers (some things simply didn't need to be publicized, she'd said).

He had to admit, he was stumped; especially considering the behavior of Brother Petros upon bringing him here. As if there were quite a bit more to this… more that didn't sit well on the righteous shoulders of the Knight of Destruction. With an abrupt motion, he swept off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers in frustration. He was aware of the Methuselah watching him curiously, but couldn't muster the energy to continue his questioning.

A tiny shift in the ambient noise of the room alerted him to the open channel first; an extra hiss, a hint of feedback, just barely adding to the soft thrum already present. He didn't move, knowing that he shouldn't be aware of it, but waiting. The Methuselah woman looked around nervously, drawing herself back into the corner again, white-lipped.

"Father Abel Nightroad." The voice was familiar, but distant and sepulchral over the communication feed. The Methuselah shrieked, vanishing back into the depths of her ragged coat, causing Abel to jump at the reaction. He overdid it, of course, scooting away from her several feet, arms flailing, looking around wildly, cramming the round wire frames back onto his nose and _just happening_ to catch the illumination of the observation window above out of the corner of his eye, conveniently drawing his attention.

He hoped that would be the interpretation, anyway.

"Y-yes?"

"You are being held as a potential threat to the security of the Vatican," the voice continued, a sneer almost visible in the tone.

Abel's eyes widened in dismay. "Eh? Me? But –"

"You _are_ the AX member also known as 'Crusnik'?"

"Ah… yes?" _Not good…_ He peered up at the window more closely, getting to his feet. There was the recognizable silhouette of Francesco, and to the side Brother Petros. But next to them – was that Lady Caterina?

"You stand accused of activity that has put citizens of both Rome and Albion in danger, not to mention members of the Vatican itself. Your superior has vouched for your conduct and presence of mind; however, His Holiness requires proof that you retain control over the power you possess. If you can sufficiently prove to the Inquisition that your abilities are under control, we will gladly remand you into her custody." Francesco's voice had become insincerely apologetic, setting Abel's teeth on edge.

"If that is what His Holiness requires of me," he said instead, lowering his head in acceptance, "then let it be done." At a low percentage of activation, he didn't think the Crusnik should be enticed by the battered Methuselah in the room, despite the earlier problems. He wondered what, exactly, Francesco hoped to accomplish by this.

The awareness of the Crusnik expanded through his body, a liquid heat strengthening his limbs and sparking the latent energy in his nerves to a glittering, barely restrained fire. At forty-percent, he was wingless, which was a mercy since the room was not quite large enough to accommodate his full wingspan while standing – as it were, the electrically charged strands of his silver hair brushed the ceiling with a crackle. The drone in the room was louder now, insistent. Surprising, actually, since he'd never noticed a great increase in his hearing before in this form. Shaking his head against the oppressive noise, he shot a quick glance across at the Methuselah.

She was, _stupidly_, he thought, staring back right at him, eyes wide in terror, legs beginning to gather beneath her as if she wished to flee. Abel felt once more the shift in the nanomachines, itching beneath his skin, lunging forward in the confines of his body like rabid dogs in a cage.

"Don't move," he whispered to her, cursing the faint metallic alteration in his voice as she recoiled further. "In the name of God and all that's holy, do _not_ _move_, little one."

To his relief, she froze, pale and fragile in the blue light. He felt the ravenous urge subside, and closed his eyes in relief.

"It's Isølde." The voice was almost too soft to hear over the humming sound. He looked back at her in surprise.

"What?"

"My name. You asked."

One silver eyebrow lifted in confusion. Why suddenly tell him now? _She knows something…_

"Father Nightroad, this is not the full extent of your power. In order to satisfy the Inquisition's requirements, we must see your level of control in all potential instances." Brother Petros' voice this time, sounding clipped and unhappy to Abel's ears even through the strange noise and the tinny sound imparted by the microphone.

The Crusnik growled in displeasure; being forced to perform like a circus sideshow act was not on his list of preferred activities. Still, it had to be done. He couldn't stay a prisoner of the Inquisition for long. There were too many things left to deal with and he wouldn't be able to accomplish _anything_ sitting in a cell. Besides, he'd probably go mad from that bloody noise… Gritting his teeth, Abel tilted his head in acknowledgement – sparks fell from the ceiling, how odd – and then allowed the nanomachines further play over his form.

Eighty percent was always disturbingly pleasant, a glorious rush of warmth surging through his limbs and a sensation of near-invincibility that teased at his mind, luring gently with the promise of more, if only he would give them control. He'd allowed it, once, when he'd been out of his mind with the pain of regeneration and desperate for one more moment of hard-won oblivion. But now he knew how empty those promises were, stained in blood and despair. The power was not worth the consequences… and there were _always_ consequences.

He had not allowed his scythe to manifest earlier, so this time the nanomachines formed both wings and scythe simultaneously, quick to take advantage of any freedom they were offered. The wings billowed out so rapidly that they slammed with unusual force into the walls, and Abel winced, looking with some embarrassment up at the window.

"A bit small in here," he managed to gasp, the quip so incredibly out of place that he knew it was setting off warning bells… Caterina's face appeared clearly now at the observation window, palms pressed to the surface as if she might push it aside with sheer will. She turned to say something forcefully to another shadowed figure, her profile sharp, face taut with anger. The other's hand raised to forestall her tirade, but she tossed her head furiously in response, and Abel could read her lips – _what do you expect to accomplish by this, brother? You can see that even under duress he is perfectly fine – this is outrageous –_

Concentrating hard on trying to understand what was going on outside, Abel barely realized something was happening before the results hit him, and then they came with a multi-voiced scream of agony. Waves of discordant sound rattled through his frame, splitting his vision into a thousand fragments as he doubled over on himself. Wings slammed upward in alarm, shattering into fragments, coalescing once more, then shattering again. He covered his ears, but the vibrations were more than a mere aural inconvenience now; they were setting up a disruptive resonance throughout his entire body. Whereas before there had been only the low-frequency sound, now there was an added high frequency, octaves higher than a human should be able to discern.

Panting, he fixed his stare on the floor, blankly noticing his talons digging more than an inch into the surface, sharp shadows dancing across them from the eldritch glare of electricity roiling above him. _Analyze, analyze_… He'd never felt this before, but he could swear that the Crusnik were actually _panicking_.

That realization didn't make things any better.

Fine, he would simply deactivate the nanomachines. Except…

He couldn't.

It was as if he'd lost all control over them, although fortunately _they_ didn't have the control either. They seemed to be locked into a routine by the disruption, unable to break loose, and although he could still move without their cooperation, it was like pushing through cold molasses to do so. His only option now was to let them burn themselves out in exhaustion and starvation.

His eyes fell once more on the frightened Methuselah, crouched down with her own hands over her ears. "Isølde…" _Good Lord, the Crusnik weren't going to starve at all, were they_… Panicking in earnest now, he struggled towards the observation window, stretching painfully up the curve of the wall to peer inside where Caterina's face had been. Instantly she was back at the window, wide eyed and horrified.

"Caterina – it's not my doing – it's the sound waves – make them turn it off!" She stared at him uncomprehendingly, brows drawn together in confusion, then looked sharply over her shoulder. He caught a glimpse of other faces approaching: the Professor, speculative and disbelieving; and Tres – oh thank God, _Tres_, who _could_ read his lips. He slammed a taloned hand into the window desperately. "Tres! Tres! Stop Petros!"

A crimson mantle blocked Abel's vision – Francesco, looking stern and self-righteous, probably nattering on about how this was an unforgivable lapse of control and he was far too dangerous to be roaming about unfettered. He let his hand slide down the wall, feeling the exhaustion beginning to set in, watching dully as a flurry of activity happened behind the glass, Tres' shock of copper hair appearing suddenly beside Petros at the control panel. The next moment he staggered forward, caught off-balance when the high-pitched frequency ceased and the Crusnik nanomachines were released from their restraint.

The problem was, he still didn't have control. And without that control, the exhausted, ravenous Crusnik would drain the only Methuselah available to them mercilessly.

Tattered wings shuddered as a taloned hand reached unbidden for the Methuselah, still crouched in the corner, bloody tears streaming from her eyes and traces of blood coming from her ears. She looked up at him with a start, wide eyes nearly as red as his own now with broken capillaries. He watched in despair as the glistening fluid lifted from her skin under his touch, absorbed greedily by the nanomachines within his own. "Isølde… I am sorry."

"It's all right," she managed to reply. "It's only a fitting death for a terrorist, after all." The woman sighed, almost regretfully, and then coughed, eyes rolling in fear for just a moment as the talons bared her neck. Long fangs touched gently down, opening the artery, absorbing the bacilli-rich fluid in a gruesome parody of a caress, and she was relaxing in his arms. _Giving up,_ he realized sluggishly, his mind fogged with the survival instinct of the nanomachines. _Or had she already given up, the moment she spoke her name to me? _"I am the one who is sorry…" she mumbled in a faint voice, one hand reaching up to keep him from pulling away – as if he could. "I am sorry that my freedom… makes you a prisoner."

Startled, Abel managed to draw back slightly, trying to process that comment through the wretched, helpless hunger, but her eyes were dulling already as the life drained away. She could give him no further clues, and he could not save her. He could only remember her, as he did many others, in his prayers.

Minutes later, the Crusnik were satiated. But as Abel lurched away from the dead Methuselah, ashen-faced and shaken, the scope of his plight became clear. In a situation where he absolutely _had_ to maintain control, he had lost it spectacularly. He had no idea what the sound had been that caused such a violent reaction, and even when it had been turned off, he'd been so far gone that it hadn't made any obvious difference. His AX colleagues had put their faith in him, had defended him, and he had failed them.

The list of people he'd failed just seemed to get longer and longer with each passing day. He could now add this mysterious "Isølde" to the list, along with Caterina – _again_ – _she'd_ forgiven him for more failures than he had years to repent, it seemed. And so many more… Noelle. _Lilith_…

Abel felt a decidedly unpriestly urge to swear. Voluminously, at length, and in several different (and possibly dead) languages.

_You can't protect anyone, can you?_

Stricken, he sank to the floor miserably, arms folding about his knees, staring across the floor at the faint glint where his discarded spectacles' lenses caught the dim light. The light above from the observation window was gone, and probably his allies with it. But what else could they have done? After that performance, _he_ wouldn't have let _himself_ go free, only knowing what they knew.

_Perhaps_, he thought dully, _it is better this way._

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	4. The Bishops' Analysis

**Title: **In the Name of Power

**By: **S. Arallion

Based loosely on the anime series "Trinity Blood" _(originally crafted as a novel by Yoshida Sunao, character design by THORES Shibamoto; turned into manga by Kiyo Kuujou and most recently developed into an anime series produced by GONZO)_

**Acknowledgements: **Many effusive thanks to the esteemed Lael Adair, who beta-read the first draft of this chapter, battling rampant commas and an overabundance of "-ing" verbs and then giving me the inspiration to redo the first section… essentially _doubling_ this chapter's original size. Dratted plot bunnies. (Although in truth, the bunnies were minor contributors to the increase…)

And many, many thanks to those who've reviewed so far, and who stuck around on the alerts list despite the long drought. I hope you continue to enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** All characters in this story are owned by their respective copyright holders and authorized licensors —namely, not myself. Anything you don't recognize is my fault. I make absolutely no profit from my use of these characters. – Arallion

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Part 4: The Bishops' Analysis

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_Sister Kate._

There was no response but static to the wireless contact, as had been the case ever since they entered the Inquisition's security section.

Tres Iqus, otherwise known as HCIIIX or Gunslinger, depending on the level of clearance one had who addressed him, frowned slightly. Next to him, supporting the Duchess of Milan unobtrusively from her elbow, Professor Wordsworth nodded minutely in acknowledgement. They were flanked closely by Inquisition guards, making it impossible for them to do more.

There was a slight lurch in the motion of the elevator, and the android's internal gyroscope registered a strange reading. Then it slowed to a stop and the doors slid open before them, revealing two more Inquisition soldiers awaiting their exit. They were followed out by their current guards and Brother Petros.

_Sister Kate._

Static.

The walk through the convoluted hallways of the Inquisition seemed longer this time, although if Tres' internal clock were functioning properly then it was merely psychological. Francesco had left them at the elevator so there was none of the meaningless small talk that had marked their first passage. And Caterina was eerily silent. To the android's clinical gaze, she was exhibiting classic symptoms of shock – a rapid drop in body temperature; blank, unfocused eyes; rapid, shallow breathing – and Wordsworth must have noticed as well, although he was careful to avoid drawing overt attention to the fact that he was leading a Cardinal around like a frightened little girl.

The halls echoed with the hollow, metallic sounds of their boot steps.

_Sister Kate._

_Tres! Thank Heaven – I lost contact with all of you. I haven't been able to locate you at all on my scanners. Where did you all _go? The female voice was sharp with worry.

_Unable to confirm at the present time._ There was a spluttering noise across the transmission, but he ignored it. _Sister Kate, we were unable to assist Father Nightroad. Situation has become problematic. I will back up a full memory recording of the event. Requesting permission to upload when complete so that the Professor and Cardinal Sforza may review at their convenience._

There was a moment of silence, and then Kate's voice returned, businesslike. _Permission granted. I will join you at the office. _With a slight crackle, the transmission cut off.

The android blinked, and then coughed, causing the Professor to glance back at him in concern. His eyes widened in understanding, however, at Tres' faint nod.

"I do hope Cardinal Sforza will be all right," Brother Petros offered in an undertone as they approached the main gate. "It is unfortunate she had to be exposed to such a grisly sight."

The Professor began to open his mouth, a surprised look on his face. In his experience it was unusual for Petros to remark at all on someone's well-being, let alone when it had to do with his superior.

"Thank you for your concern, Brother Petros," Caterina's voice interjected crisply. "But I am quite well-acquainted with all manner of unpleasant proceedings. I will be fine." Her blue gaze met the Chief Inquisitor's with a hint of challenge, and the man bowed deeply, steel-blue hair obscuring his face momentarily.

"My apologies, your Eminence," he replied, the tone sounding sincerely penitent. "I appear to have misinterpreted the situation."

"I do believe that to be the case. Good day to you, Brother Petros." And turning, she stepped out into the chill sunlight. Tres' brow furrowed as the Inquisitor's face paled noticeably, but there was no time to analyze the effects of Caterina's remark. He followed the Professor out into the courtyard, both of them now trailing the woman by several paces.

"Well, this is something, at least," William muttered, looking harried as he watched the Cardinal's bright golden curls bounce furiously with the force of her stride. The steps were still a bit unsteady, however, and both men sped up slightly to ensure they would be within reach to catch her should she fall.

The walk to the Palazzo Sparta would take several minutes even at the pace Caterina had set, so with half of his processing power the android began to back up his recorded "memory" as he had promised Kate. Even if he had not alerted the Iron Maiden to expect an upload this was a standard procedure; it was activated whenever an event of importance was experienced to ensure that if something happened to his primary memory it would be accessible in another format. Moments replayed in his mind as the system began to function, and the small part of him that might be considered 'human' gave in to curiosity and tried to make sense of it all.

The most pressing concern, of course, was the fact that Abel had allowed his Crusnik form to devour the terrorist despite knowing that his freedom depended on him _not_ doing so. From appearances, some might logically assume that the scent of blood had sent the Crusnik over the edge; whatever had been going on in the room seemed to have caused the Methuselah to begin bleeding profusely from the eyes and ears. However, the android had never seen that extreme a reaction from Abel before, even when they'd practically been _wading_ in Methuselah blood. There had to be more to the situation than met the eye.

Try as he might to wrestle them into place, it was clear that certain elements simply did not fit. Tres felt that perhaps he had missed something important.

"Professor Wordsworth." The memory continued to spin out, recording smoothly to backup while Tres pursued this thread of concern. Ahead of him Wordsworth turned slightly, with a questioning glance. Caterina, lost in her own thoughts, didn't appear to notice as their pace slowed, lagging slightly behind.

"Yes, Tres, what is it?"

The voice was brisk and curt, but Tres read that as within parameters for a human in this situation. "I believe you will need to examine my memory of this event as soon as we return. There are certain… _anomalies_ that I think you should be aware of."

Bright sea-blue eyes focused on him sharply, but as Tres' face revealed no emotion, an eyebrow quirked up. "Right. I suspected as much. Let's hurry, then."

It was not unusual for the Vatican personnel to observe Cardinal Sforza storming back from an audience involving Cardinal Francesco di Medici, so the trio drew no extra attention as they entered the AX headquarters. Passing through the hallways without incident, they reached the tall, sculpted doors that opened into Caterina's official suite. William turned the carved handles, pushing them aside to reveal a sitting room fragrant with the citrus scent of bergamot oil from Sister Kate's imported Albion blend of tea. The sister herself, a glimmering holographic vision in white, stood next to the tea tray by the fire.

Caterina inhaled sharply before stepping across the threshold, gloved hands releasing the folds of her skirt and smoothing them in an automatic motion. Her eyes, which had been clear and bright when speaking to the Chief Inquisitor, were now shadowed and tense. They flickered slightly to the Professor with a silent nod of gratitude as she moved to pour herself a cup of tea.

"I took the liberty of dismissing the serving staff," Kate ventured tentatively, darting a questioning glance at the two men over the Cardinal's shoulder.

"Thank you, Sister Kate. You saved me the trouble," Caterina replied, her tone brisk but gracious. She turned back to the others with steaming cup in hand. "Close the door please, Tres."

The android moved automatically to close and latch the double doors while the Cardinal took a seat in one of the high-backed, upholstered chairs in front of the fire. William moved forward to pour himself a cup of tea, and then stepped over near the fire himself. Turning back to them, Tres took the opportunity to scan both quickly. The Professor looked concerned, although it was apparent that he was trying to hide the telltale signs behind his teacup – Tres knew that although the man controlled the expression in his eyes quite well, there were certain muscles around his mouth that deepened the lines in his cheeks which he often couldn't hide. Cardinal Sforza was still reading several tenths of a degree colder than she should have been, so the android could only presume that she was functioning on sheer adrenaline at this point, although the tea seemed to provide a comforting anchor.

The moments passed in silence and Caterina continued to stare into the fire, eyes moving rapidly as she considered their next move. Wordsworth jumped when she finally spoke, and gave Tres a withering look for his raised eyebrow.

"Tres, William: I need you to speak with complete honesty. Both of you have worked closely in the field with Abel. Can either of you offer me an explanation of what just transpired in that little chamber?"

It was Tres who replied first, dispassionately. "Father Nightroad has never reacted in such a manner to the mere presence of a Methuselah, wounded or not. I would like the Professor to examine my memory, but initial analysis suggests that another influence was at work in the room, possibly controlled by the panel Brother Petros was using." The android's clear, blue eyes turned to William with a questioning expression.

"We could use your help with getting Tres' memory into a reviewable format, Sister Kate," William interjected in a thoughtful tone. "There was something about that room. I've never seen Nightroad's powers focus like they did on that ceiling tile. It was almost as if it were an electrical conductor…" he cut off that thought with a shake of his head. "I can't tell without further investigation of the room, and I doubt we'll be granted access again just by asking. Kate, we may need your help with that as well –"

Kate nodded, although her brows were drawn together in confusion. "Tres is uploading the files now; I should be able to project in a few minutes. As for accessing the Inquisitorial Department's secured system, that may take a bit longer –"

Caterina's hand lifted, and they broke off, looking at her questioningly. To their surprise her eyes were glimmering with unshed tears.

"Gentlemen, am I to assume that _neither_ of you believe this was a case of Abel losing control on his own, then?"

William sighed and set down his cup in favor of pulling out his pipe. "To the best of our knowledge, no, it wasn't. We can't be positive of course, but everything points to other factors at work."

The Cardinal sniffed sharply, eyes narrowing and chin lifting regally. "Well then. It seems that we have much to do. As soon as you are ready, Sister Kate, please let me know." The holographic image nodded, her eyes distant, already concentrating on the task. Caterina smiled wryly and turned her attention back to the men. "Before we begin reviewing the events in the chamber, however, I have another question."

William and Tres exchanged glances. "Yes, my lady?" the Professor replied, hesitantly.

"What in Heaven's name is my brother doing with a Rosenkreutz officer in his employ? And a _Methuselah_, no less?"

"Negative."

Tres' remark made him abruptly the center of attention, and although he did not normally feel what the humans termed "self-conscious", he did have the uncomfortable sensation that one might get when gazing down the barrel of a gun. He blinked.

"Tres, that was a bit cryptic. Would you mind going into a spot of detail on that one?" Wordsworth remarked laconically.

"The man in Cardinal Francesco's office was the Rosenkreutz officer known as Isaak Fernand von Kämpfer; however, he did not register as a Methuselah to my scan," Tres clarified, as best he could. "His physiology registers as human, with some minor anomalies." Caterina's eyebrows rose faintly.

"So that's why you didn't react to him. I was certain he was a Methuselah, considering his fangs, and abilities…"

William scratched the back of his head in an uncomfortable gesture. "No, those are false teeth, or possibly caps – I'm really not sure when he took to using them, he didn't have them when we were at the University…"

"At the – You _knew_?" The teacup clattered as Caterina set it down on the low table next to her. "William, I added von Kämpfer to our list of known Rosenkreutz agents _months_ ago. Are you telling me you actually recognized this man, and didn't tell me about it?"

The Professor raised his hands helplessly in protest. "Well, it just didn't seem relevant at the time – " He closed his mouth abruptly at her glare. "Right. I do apologize."

"Indeed," Caterina narrowed her eyes. "Are there any _other_ little secrets I should be aware of?"

Wordsworth sighed. "Possibly. As you know, von Kämpfer holds the title of _Panzermagier_ within the Rosenkreutz, which translates loosely into 'armor mage'. He's done extensive research into methods of damage reduction and deflection, as we saw demonstrated in the battle at Albion. He is also a dabbler in biogenetics, and when I knew him, he was already highly skilled in forms of gene manipulation using Lost Technology. From what little we've been able to gather, he uses his knowledge to support Contra Mundi directly, which begs the question – _why_ is he here in the Vatican?"

"We can only assume at this point, but I would expect it might coincide with my brother's sudden interest in Abel." Caterina suddenly looked very tired, rubbing her forehead wearily. "I can't believe it's only the afternoon. With all that's gone on, I was sure it would be dark already," she grumbled.

"Oh-!"

Turning quickly, they saw Sister Kate's translucent image cringe back in dismay, her hands pressed tightly to her lips and phantom tears streaming down her cheeks. "Sister Kate, status report," Tres demanded automatically. An outburst from the captain of the Iron Maiden was rare indeed.

"I'm sorry – I'm sorry – I peeked," the nun gasped, looking as if she might faint. The android had noticed on many occasions that unlike in his case, Kate's mind was still fully human, and frequently her projection would mimic the instinctive reactions of her physical human form. Although fully integrated into the Iron Maiden's systems, Kate retained a distinction between her organic mind and the inorganic vessel that Tres could not replicate. "Oh, God have mercy, poor Abel!"

The sister's evident shock and sorrow seemed to bring a sense of catharsis to the group; those involved having been forced to subdue their dismay in a watchful, potentially hostile environment. Caterina bowed her head in empathy, removing her monocle briefly and rubbing her own eyes. "It's all right, Sister Kate. I expect that all of us will find it somewhat difficult to watch again."

Kate appeared to take a deep breath, gathering her composure, and nodded. "It's ready now, if you wish."

"Please proceed then, Sister."

Before their eyes, a still view representation of their first moments in the underground observation room materialized above the fireplace, as if on a flat panel screen. "Transferring control of playback to you, Father Tres," the holograph said, glancing at Tres sidelong. The android nodded in acknowledgement, feeling the wireless link snap into place.

"Positive. Connection confirmed," he replied. "Playback commencing."

The events played out again, from Tres' perspective, and although his visual receptors could obviously not be everywhere at once, he did catch much of Francesco's expression throughout the explanation to the imprisoned Father Nightroad.

"Is it just me, or does he look rather anticipatory?" Wordsworth muttered.

"Facts, William," Kate snapped, still a bit watery-eyed. "You're editorializing."

"Yes, ma'am," the Professor sighed, sticking his pipe back into his mouth.

"Francesco always looks that way when he thinks he's getting something he wants," Caterina noted distantly. "But yes, he does look a bit more… predatory… than normal. William, what _is_ that thing on the ceiling?" She rose from her seat to peer intently at the scene through the window, which showed a narrow panel of gleaming material inset into the matte surface of the dome.

William stepped forward too, pointing with the stem of the unlit pipe. "Yes, that's exactly what I was referring to earlier. Here – look, look there, this is the first indication –" he said as the image displayed the Crusnik, at low intensity, the dark clerical robes fluttering around him in a nonexistent breeze and long, silver hair lifting in the electrical field his body was generating. The Methuselah looked like a small, frightened child from this perspective, starting to back away but then freezing as Abel's red-tinged eyes widened and he whispered something frantically, raising a hand to stop her. A shower of sparks floated down as his hair scraped the ceiling. "See, there. What is that?"

Kate made a thoughtful sound in her throat, leaning forward as well. "Father Tres, could you show that again?"

Obligingly, Tres replayed the moment.

"It's obviously metal, but in a room like that – what purpose does it serve?" William pondered. "Also, even at this point it looks as if Abel is having a bit of trouble with that Methuselah's proximity. As you say, Tres, he's never had any trouble before maintaining control, so why now?"

"Keep going please," Caterina requested, watching the image narrowly.

When the Crusnik escalated his power, great black feathers obscured the window briefly until Abel managed to shift the voluminous wings back out of the way. A shimmer of blue light writhed up and down the appendages, and he looked slightly alarmed. The voice came through the speaker with a slight burr of feedback. "_A bit small in here…"_

William interrupted again as the image of Caterina began to confront Cardinal Francesco. "What's Petros doing over there?"

Tres halted the playback. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen the Chief Inquisitor doing something at the panel to the right of the window. One good thing about having this on the Iron Maiden's systems was that he could focus in on sections of his recorded imagery, and he did so now, pinpointing the man's hands and bringing the screen into focus around that section, then continuing the playback again.

Caterina frowned. "He appears to be raising the level on that slider…"

"Which coincides in timing with the issues Nightroad suddenly appeared to be having with his transformation," William pointed out. Tres backed the focus out again to display the Crusnik falling to his hands and knees on the floor, a stream of blue-white light drawing a jagged line between his oddly shifting, suddenly tattered-looking wings to the ceiling. "Hell, there it is again."

"Language!" Kate hissed. "William Walter Wordsworth, you're getting as bad as Father Léon."

"Yes ma'am," the Professor agreed absently, his attention entirely focused on the scene. "Look at that Methuselah. It almost looks as if she's imploding."

"She's bleeding – her nose, her ears, her eyes are streaming with it!" Caterina was appalled. "What causes that kind of reaction?"

"For her? I don't know. I know that humans sometimes experience a lesser form of it with an extreme drop in air pressure – the creation of a vacuum, if you will – but I don't think Methuselah have that same weakness. It might be that whatever has set off Abel here also caused this… yet I wonder, then, if that might not be actually what killed her." William looked thoughtful.

"We need to find out, for his sake if nothing else," the Cardinal muttered as the scene continued, more focused now that it relayed moments where Tres had found himself forced to intervene. The images spun out before them; a horrendous train-wreck of an affair that they could not draw their eyes away from if they'd wished.

_Abel's wide, red-tinged eyes at the curved window, his pointed features sharpened even further in the Crusnik transformation, his fear and dismay evident even to Tres through the soundproof barrier. The movements of his lips were altered, yet still recognizable. "Caterina! It's not my doing – it's the sound waves – make them turn it off!"_

_It had not been a direct order. Still, Tres found himself able to act upon it; after all, Father Nightroad _was _a superior officer. Response was made even simpler as the priest became aware of him through the window, his lips shaping the android's name in urgent entreaty. Sidestepping Cardinal Francesco – who was shaking his head and reaching out to the Lady Caterina with a stern and sorrowful expression though his temperature and heart rate indicated pleased satisfaction – Tres moved forward to engage the Chief Inquisitor at the control panel._

_Brother Petros put an arm up to block his way, but as Tres advanced, Petros offered little resistance. He remained in place just long enough to cause the android to sidestep and prepare for melee, then stepped back with the impetus of one who had been roughly pushed aside, although Tres had not touched him. The Inquisitor's hand lingered on one control, a slider that appeared to be pushed just over halfway to its potential limit, before slipping away._

Tres nodded faintly at this confirmation of what he'd seen. Petros' action had _not_ been that of one who meant to stop him, and was hidden well from the others in the room. All considerations taken into account, the android had determined that the slider was the most logical choice to "turn off" whatever was occurring, and he'd pulled it towards himself, to a position marked "00"

Under the circumstances, Tres surmised that the results of this action had not been quite as Father Nightroad would have hoped, as the rest of the images showed the Crusnik's somewhat faltering advance on the ragged, crumpled terrorist Methuselah, followed by what Tres considered to be one of its more merciful repasts.

"Petros let you by, didn't he?" Kate said abruptly, glancing at Tres. "He practically gave you the key to shut down whatever he'd been doing, which I assume is what caused the problem."

"Positive. That is what I understood from his actions."

"That control panel could help us so much right now," Wordsworth sighed, peering at the section that was visible from Tres' memory perspective. "But how are we ever to find out what it does, if we can't get to it?"

"There has to be some way," Caterina murmured, rubbing her forehead.

"Could Petros be an ally in this?" Kate suggested.

"I seriously doubt it," the Cardinal returned sadly. "Francesco has been very careful in his choices of officers for his department. They're loyal to a fault, and most of the time blind to anything other than their rather limited world view. Petros has never been an exception."

Wordsworth shook his head, staring at his pipe. "With apologies, my lady, I have to disagree. In Albion, the Chief Inquisitor actually let the Methuselah that was holding the Pope go free, at His Holiness' request. He also played a key role in helping the Empress' messenger survive, when Carthage was under siege. And with his actions thus far here – I wonder if Brother Petros might have a touch more open-mindedness than one would expect."

Caterina nodded slowly, considering. "Point taken, I had forgotten that he did those things. Very well then, William, if you believe you can approach him obliquely, without endangering his position… And at the very least, see if you can find out what he knows about von Kämpfer's involvement in all this."

"I'll do my very best," the Professor bowed, with a slight smile.

"Meanwhile, I'll see what I can do about getting us into the Inquisition's secure files," Sister Kate offered. "I'll also do some analysis of the video and audio Father Tres has provided. I have a hunch…"

"Follow up, Sister," Caterina acknowledged. "And I will be speaking to His Holiness just as soon as I can wrangle an audience. Tres, you'll be with me."

The android bowed, but looked at the Cardinal sidelong. "Positive. Wrangle: transitive verb. To herd, as in livestock. What do you wish me to wrangle?"

William chortled, and Caterina smiled faintly. "It's a figure of speech, dear Tres. I expect to have to argue a bit in order to get past my brother's supporters."

Tres blinked. "Positive. Definition confirmed. Updating database."

Caterina shook her head, her blue eyes less shadowed than they had been for several hours. "Oh, Tres, you _are_ a gem."

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At some point during the next few hours he must have fallen asleep, for the next thing Abel consciously knew, he was curled up on his side on the floor with the corner of a thin blanket tickling the end of his nose. For a long moment he didn't move, as the events of the previous day came crashing in on him.

_I killed an innocent!_ Involuntarily the priest's thin body curled tighter into itself, shaking.

His conscience quickly reminded him that the girl couldn't possibly have been _that_ much of an innocent – she was, after all, in the prisons of the Inquisition. _But she had been rendered nearly helpless,_ the less logical part of him screamed in outrage. It was practically cold-blooded murder, and damn the survival instinct excuse – he should have been stronger than that. He _was_ stronger than that.

What could have caused everything to go so wrong?

Suddenly registering the blanket he'd been covered with, Abel sat up, adjusting his spectacles. The room was still doused in a sickly twilight of blue-green, but the Methuselah's body was noticeably missing. He scrambled to his knees, casting a quick glance up to where the observation window lay hidden in the smooth wall. No faint light radiated from it, no face pressed against the clouded surface. He glanced around the rest of the room cautiously.

Someone had come in while he was unconscious, obviously. The body removed, the blanket over him, and – well, that was _something_, at least. A platter of food rested on the shelf along the wall, and of course he – the human, not the Crusnik – was half-starved again. He wasn't sure it would matter at this point if it were stale bread and moldy porridge, although thankfully it wasn't; the bread was simple but relatively fresh, the bowl was filled with a meaty broth, and the pitcher next to it was filled with clean, clear water. He wondered briefly if all the Inquisition's prisoners were treated so well, and then decided it was best not to think about it.

About halfway through the meal, Abel managed to wrestle his mind back around to the situation at hand.

_What in Heaven's name is going on?_

The sound.

Memory flooded his limbs with ice-cold despair, but he beat the associated emotions back, doggedly trying to focus on the events themselves. Scientific theory; you could not come to accurate conclusions when the data was tainted with your own perspective. He dipped some of the bread into the broth, then took a bite, counting as he chewed. After three repetitions of this, his heart rate had slowed again, and he was able to look around the room with a more clinical eye.

The sound that had first set him on edge was still present, vibrating almost undetectably through the soles of his boots. Taking another bite, Abel circumnavigated the room slowly, trying to find any point where the vibration was more evident either in the walls or in the floor. He found no discrepancies, which wasn't completely surprising. Such rooms, he remembered, had been designed to deliver all manner of stimuli to the test subjects, and in measured amounts to avoid variables. If sound was being pumped in, it was unlikely that he would be able to determine a specific source.

But then, what was that odd, metallic plate on the ceiling? A speaker, perhaps?

Stretching up on the tips of his toes, he brushed his fingers across the edge of the plate. It was cool to the touch, unyielding, and most certainly non-porous. And there wasn't any greater concentration of vibration coming from there, either. Tapping on it yielded a slightly hollow sound, but it seemed innocuous enough. Sighing, Abel paced back to the remnants of his food, mopping up the last of the broth with a despondent sigh.

Was he just looking for an excuse? Certainly something had gone wrong with his transformation. It _appeared_ to be linked to the sound waves he and the Methuselah had been bombarded with. But – could he be sure that was the full reason behind his loss of control?

Back in Carthage he'd nearly lost it as well; releasing the Crusnik to eighty-percent control with less than a half-second of transition to intercept the rogue Inquisition tank had left him scrambling for consciousness, while the nanomachines greedily sucked in full half of the Earl of Memphis' life force as he lay bleeding out on the broken pavement. Fury at the one who had hurt them kept them focused in the right direction, until Abel gained back enough sense of the situation to accomplish what needed to be done. Destroy the airships, check. Destroy the tank, check. Devour the Methuselah… _Stop!_

The echo of Esther's pleading scream still woke him at night, sometimes.

No. Even that, one of the most extreme examples in recent years, didn't compare to what he'd just experienced. He had always retained enough sense of self to influence his body's actions before. This… this simply didn't make sense.

_Click._

Abel's head shot up before he could control his reaction, and he cursed himself silently for the weakness.

"Ah, Father Nightroad. Or should I say… _Crusnik 02_."

Narrowed eyes focused on a slim, incisive shadow in the observation room, just far enough from the surface of the window that he couldn't make out the features. The voice, however, was eerily familiar… yet not one that he remembered from his time in the Vatican. A sick feeling – cold, leaden – began to spread through his limbs.

"Or perhaps you would prefer – Knightlord?"

"Who – "But the question died on his lips as the figure stepped forward. Long, dark hair cascaded down the sides of an arrogantly sculpted, aristocratic face; eyes of deepest black failed to reflect even the slightest amount of light, gazing down on him with cold, detached scrutiny.

_Kämpfer._

White-hot fury exploded through his mind, and he was lunging for the window in the blink of an eye, claws extended.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." The supple voice held a touch of amusement as the Crusnik literally bounced off the flexible glassteel pane, rebounding and skidding to a halt in the center of the floor.

Abel let his fangs show in a semblance of a grin. "Then it is rather fortunate that you are not me." _So close - _if he could only get through the walls of this cage…

Isaak tilted his head faintly and rested a hand on the curve of the window. "Do you know where you are?"

_It doesn't matter._ "In the prison of the Inquisition, I believe." _Where is the weakness… where…_

"Indeed. And do you know where that is?"

"Considering that I was blindfolded for part of the way, not particularly." The window was as secure as the walls. _Everything_ would be secure, except… Perhaps that metal panel in the ceiling… and if just a fraction of his power could escape, theoretically he could fry the circuits of the entire place…

"Yes, you could, and in the process you could bring the entire Basilica down on top of you."

Abel stopped breathing. The words were like a spear of ice, impaling him to the floor.

"Goodness, think of the casualties," the sly tone teased, as Isaak appeared to examine his fingernails in the dim light. "You know, His Holiness the Pope is holding audience right now. Just think, you could annihilate me _and_ all those pathetic humans that torment you – in one… fell… swoop." He had the gall to flutter his arms slightly, in a pale mimicry of the Crusnik's wings.

The nanomachines were shoved aside, repressed with as little effort as they had been alerted. Abel turned away slightly, staring up at the metal panel in the ceiling. He shuddered faintly as a flash of vision wracked his mind: a great explosion as his power blew the lid off his cage, literally, and sent the ancient walls of the Basilica crashing down atop its occupants in a heap of rubble and dust. It would kill Isaak, certainly. But it would also possibly bring an end to all the humans he'd sworn to protect. It would be worse than the Silent Noise… for it would be _his_ hand this time that destroyed them.

And the fact that Kämpfer had so clearly pushed all the buttons that both started him on the path and stopped him from completing it made him very, very nervous indeed.

"So predictable." A soft chuckle floated through the speakers.

The priest swung back around, furious but in control this time, save for the tight clenching of his fists in their tattered gloves. "Kämpfer. What are you planning? _How_ are you here at all? Did Cain send you?"

The Rosenkreutz officer inclined his head again, with a dry smile that showed a hint of fang. "So many questions. I know it must be frustrating. But I assure you, my plans have nothing to do with you. You are… well, simply an afterthought, really." As the priest's eyes widened, Isaak raised a hand to forestall his words. "It does not have anything to do with your precious AX, either, just so you are aware. Although there are… certain elements that I may take advantage of," he mused, a thoughtful expression crossing his features.

Abel's jaw clenched tightly enough that he heard a crackle. "If you hurt any of them…" he growled.

Isaak bowed in mocking acknowledgement. "Perhaps 'take advantage' was an unfortunate choice of words. I have no intention of hurting them, Abel Knightlord. I merely have some things I must accomplish here in Rome, and I expect that they will be… _inclined…_ to assist me."

The priest took a deep breath, letting it out cautiously. He could not afford to let the other's words cloud his mind. He'd known there was something wrong before, now this was confirmation of at least part of the problem. And… what if his brother were here as well? No, that was nonsense. Cain was good at many things, but diplomacy and patience were no longer part of his repertoire. If Cain were in the vicinity, most of the Vatican would have been powder and tawny gravel already. And…Isaak had very smoothly avoided answering that question, hadn't he?

_Fine._ _I'll play your little game, for now._

A faint, calculating smile played across von Kämpfer's thin lips.

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	5. The Game's Afoot

**Title: **In the Name of Power

**By: **S. Arallion

Based loosely on the anime series "Trinity Blood" _(originally crafted as a novel by Yoshida Sunao, character design by THORES Shibamoto; turned into manga by Kiyo Kuujou and most recently developed into an anime series produced by GONZO)_

**Acknowledgments:** Thanks again to Lael Adair for catching more of my goofy mistakes! ;) (You do realize that there will ALWAYS be too many commas in my drafts. Chalk it up to my deliberate thought processes. At least it's not _quite_ Shatneritis: "I must, pause, and think, about this…" Heh…)

**Disclaimer:** All characters in this story are owned by their respective copyright holders and authorized licensors —namely, not myself. Anything you don't recognize is my fault. I make absolutely no profit from my use of these characters. -- Arallion

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Part 5: The Game's Afoot

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"Lurking" was not one of William's strong suits, so it was with a touch of nervousness that he turned to walk down the long, straight path leading past the Bureau of Inquisition once more. He'd traversed the road between the Palazzo Sparta and the Basilica twice now, but his quarry was nowhere to be seen. And it was nearing the evening service.

Sighing, the Professor prayed that Petros hadn't seen him coming and taken the long way around to get to Vespers.

Happily, his prayers were answered, or perhaps Lady Luck was simply feeling sorry for the Ministry of Holy Affairs today. The lean, tall figure of the Chief Inquisitor stepped from a side door just as he neared the building; an opportunist at heart, Wordsworth wasn't going to be picky about circumstances. Taking a bracing breath, the Professor put on his best "innocent socialite" expression and strode forward with a wave and shout of greeting.

Petros stiffened at the sound. For a moment it appeared as if he might try to ignore the call – but there was nowhere else to go but back into the building, and William was closing the distance quickly. He stepped reluctantly out onto the path, the normally inscrutable face settling into an expression of dull resignation as Wordsworth joined him.

"Brother Petros! You don't look well, are you quite all right?" It was unsettling to see the Inquisitor without his ubiquitous armor; the cleric seemed oddly defenseless dressed in the lighter-weight, standard issue vestments – like a tortoise out of its shell. William had been braced for an encounter with a vastly more intimidating figure.

He reminded himself firmly not to relax _too_ much.

Petros jerked his head in a brisk nod, avoiding his eyes. _Trying to escape,_ the Professor noted with interest. "I am well, Father. Thank you for your concern. If you'll excuse me – "

"Nonsense, it's been _ages_ since we caught up."

The Inquisitor's blue-grey eyes focused on Wordsworth at last with a tinge of exasperation. He drew a breath, but then closed his mouth abruptly, glancing ahead towards the Basilica.

A woman dressed in Inquisitorial light armor stood in the path further down, watching them. Her close-cropped platinum hair glinted in the dying sunlight as she tilted her head curiously. William couldn't make out her expression, but knowing Sister Paula, it was probably something along the lines of "suspicious and irritated".

_Not good timing… _He hummed thoughtfully, mind racing as their pace drew them closer to her. "Are you sure you don't have a moment to grab a coffee, Brother? The service doesn't start for another twenty minutes; that's more than enough time to make it to the café, even for a lay-about such as myself. Have you had their specialty blend? It's truly divine!" He gestured grandly in the direction of the small coffeehouse that served the Vatican personnel in off hours.

Unsurprisingly, the wordplay was lost on Petros. The man blinked, and then scowled. "Coffee? At this hour?"

"Better than falling asleep during the sermon," William replied with a wink. "Forgive me, old boy, but you look just about done in for the day. Working with a vampire is rather difficult, I expect?"

The Inquisitor stopped cold in the middle of the road, doing a rapid about-face to gaze at Wordsworth in shock. "How do you know about that?"

_He doesn't know either, _the Professor noted, filing the information away in his mind. Isaak had managed to fool quite a few people, it seemed. "His Eminence invited him into the room while we were discussing Father Nightroad's… ah… _situation_," he replied delicately. "I'm assuming he had something to do with the technology used down there? Quite a feat, I must say…"

Petros recovered his composure, glowering down at the scholarly priest. "I wouldn't know," he rumbled grimly. "I _don't_ work with him."

Wordsworth's elegantly arched eyebrow spoke volumes. Rather than argue, the Inquisitor snorted and began to stomp ferociously down the path towards the Basilica. The Professor shrugged, waving politely to the waiting Sister Paula.

"Hmm… that could have gone better," he muttered to himself. But hopefully he'd planted the seed of an idea. Now he would simply have to wait and see if it bore fruit.

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"What did he want?"

Paula's gaze was sharp and probing, but the Chief Inquisitor's annoyed snort brushed her concerns aside. "He is an AX member. What do you _think_ he wanted, Vice-Chief?"

The woman blinked and shut her mouth with an audible snap, stepping back hastily out of the way as Petros continued walking. She fell into line at his left shoulder, casting him doubtful glances out of the corner of her eye.

He sighed. "Did you perhaps come to tell me that it is time for us to accompany His Eminence to Vespers?"

"I – no, sir," she replied, straightening, as if startled out of her thoughts. "I… you've been inaccessible most of the day, and a few personnel issues arose that I wanted to discuss with you. That's all."

The Inquisitor almost smiled. There probably _were_ some issues, at that. Paula was intelligent enough to know that the best lies were couched in truth. And her dedication and loyalty were unwavering. He remembered a time when he was the same. But that was before he met the Crusnik.

His life had been much easier, back then…

It pained him slightly to realize that he could not trust her.

"Let us head to the Basilica then, Sister. You may tell me on the way."

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The Basilica was lit brightly, a rich golden glow illuminating the massive columns surrounding it, giving the whole structure the appearance of an ornately carved lantern that had been set down to grace one end of the plaza of San Pietro. In a way it was just that, Francesco mused, casting a glance up at the monolithic, wire-supported cross that adorned the apex of the Basilica's entrance. A light in the darkness; a beacon of hope in troubled times.

And he intended to keep it that way.

The boots of his escort clicked rhythmically on the smooth paving of the colonnade. Echoes of the footsteps flitted warily between the simple Doric columns, some still cracked and stressed from the near-disaster they had experienced during the Silent Noise incident…

As foul a taste as that entire situation had left in his mouth, it had proven that even in adversity, God would provide.

The lights were flickering on outside as the sky, sporting faint wisps of purple and orange-tinted cloud, darkened to indigo. Francesco paused on the stair that led to the massive entry doors, watching as the sleek lines of the delicately suspended cross became bathed in great swaths of golden color, as if the sunset had been captured and poured into the plaza to honor the Holy See.

The technology they had mastered had always fascinated him. Certainly there was nothing too fantastical about electrical lighting; it had been around for thousands of years. But the effects that could be produced, both great and small! Francesco could only see them as minor miracles – God obviously having inspired their discovery. Technology could never replace His might, of course… but technology could allow man to do His Will on earth.

Turning with a slight smile, the Cardinal adjusted his cope about his shoulders before passing beneath the glorious archway into His Holiness' presence. He dipped three fingers in the holy font, crossing himself piously, and then strode off down the nave as the six clerics surrounding him hurried to likewise purify themselves. It would not do to be late to Vespers considering the work he intended to accomplish afterward.

He was a bit surprised when he did not see the familiar, proud figure of his half-sister among the celebrants, and wondered briefly if the ordeal she'd gone through had perhaps been too much. After all, there had been many rumors that Caterina's health was not as good as it should be… but he'd not heard anything dire since she left. It was most likely that she was simply late, having trouble dragging herself away from making some plan or other to free her beloved pet.

_Again, God provides._ Whether she was ill or busily plotting, his task would be far easier without her interference.

The Vespers ceremonies went smoothly, although Francesco silently prayed for forgiveness for his distraction. Surely God would understand, however, in the name of saving His people… He joined in the final antiphon with extra fervor, just in case.

_Glória_ _Patri, et Fílio, et Spirítui Sancto. Sicut erat in princípio, et nunc, et semper, et in sǽcula sæculórum. Amen. Allelúia._

Clergy and Vatican personnel filed out with varying degrees of decorum after the completion of the ceremony. Unfortunately, rather than the quick exit he'd hoped for, the Cardinal found himself cornered by two of the elder bishops intent on getting his opinion on something they found extremely important. He never did quite figure out what it was they wanted, as one kept interrupting the other in mid-sentence and the entire discussion dissolved into a squabble by the time he managed to extricate himself. However, the end result was that the cathedral was nearly devoid of life when he finally ducked into the sacristy to make his way to the Vatican palace. Needless to say, he was a bit annoyed.

Still… if the evening went as expected, a moment of respect to the elderly would serve him in good stead.

He'd left most of the guards behind now, entering the palace flanked by his two ranking officers and one meek aide scurrying behind, carrying the disc that would set everything in motion. Although normally only the Cardinals met in the Pope's official hall, tonight an exception had been made. At least twenty highly influential clergy would be present. More than enough, he knew, to produce the desired results when the time came.

Francesco's forceful strides carried him swiftly to the Room of the Archangel, passing the palace's intricate mosaics and well-preserved ancient sculptures with an indifference born of long familiarity. He genuflected in the required fashion before raising his eyes to the young boy who sat, a little uncomfortably, in the ornate Papal throne. His Holiness, the representative of the Divine; the embodiment of the Church. Pope Alessandro XVIII.

His younger brother.

"Brother Francesco," His Holiness proclaimed in a wavering voice. Granted, the pitch fluctuations were now more likely to be the side-effects of puberty's onset than the sound of a boy shaking in fear. "Please rise." His voice lowered so as not to carry to the circle of onlookers. "You know I hate it when you do that."

Francesco sniffed as he rose. "You know it's necessary, Your Holiness," he replied in an equally low tone, before climbing the few steps to reach his seat. His eyes flickered to the gathered clergy. "Where is our dear sister?"

Alessandro looked nervous. "I'm not sure… I would have expected her to send word if she couldn't attend. Brother – don't make a scene," he added quickly, as the older man appeared to draw a fuming breath.

The Pope's flashes of bravery were becoming more frequent… which simply meant that Francesco had to manage him with a bit more subtlety than in the past. The Cardinal glanced at Alessandro sidelong, visibly deflating. "Perhaps we should start then, Your Holiness? It might draw less attention if we make it seem that her absence was expected."

Alessandro blinked, and then smiled gratefully. "Of course. We are here because of what you had to tell us, anyway." Francesco bowed deeply, hiding his expression.

The Pope stood and the room full of clerics quieted instantly. "My brethren, I am grateful to you all for meeting tonight. I've called this meeting on behalf of Cardinal di Medici, who has an urgent request. Let us give him our full attention."

Mildly impressed at the smooth introduction, Francesco stepped forward on the platform as Alessandro calmly resumed his seat. "Thank you, Your Holiness.

"Brethren! As you all know, we are in the middle of a dangerous transition. In His Holiness' wisdom, we have begun negotiations with the New Human Empire, exploring the possibility that we and the Methuselah might coexist in peace.

"Yet as you also know, there is a third power at large in the world. A third power that despises the idea of peace in any form. That wishes us all to be purged from this world in fire and blood." There was a murmur of consternation from the gathering. Although it wasn't news to anyone, it still was unnerving to have such a fact stated so baldly. Francesco raised a hand to quiet them.

"But, my brethren, I believe I may have a solution."

Startled glances and murmurs of disbelief met this statement. He smiled faintly.

"The Holy See needs protection, and it needs to offer that protection to the world. With the assistance of our new potential allies, I believe that we can use certain forms of Lost Technology to make that possible."

The words hung in the air as he gestured to the aide to bring up the holographic projection he'd prepared. An image of Vatican City appeared, glimmering blue in the air. "We are well-protected from an attack by normal troops, approaching by land or sea. However, as we saw in Albion, an attack from the air could be devastating. Only by heroic effort were we able to defeat one lone battleship. Suffice it to say, should the Order of Rosenkreutz attack the Vatican directly, the number of ships is likely to multiply."

Nervous muttering and shifting among the clergy below increased, and the Pope made a small noise of protest. "Brother, you're frightening us."

"Your Holiness, we _should_ be frightened!" Francesco barked, noting Alessandro's instinctive flinch with satisfaction. "And then instead of ignoring the problem, we should _do_ something about it. Something, perhaps, like _this_." He nodded to the aide to let the projection play further.

From the model of the great cross in St. Peter's Square, a spiraling arc of light launched straight up and then sprayed outward in a vast, shimmering dome. In a heartbeat, the entirety of the city-state was enclosed.

"W…w-what… is that?"

The Cardinal gestured expansively. "That, Your Holiness, is the technology that will save us, should we come under attack by the Enemy of the World."

There was a long moment of silence. Then a cacophony of voices rose in disbelief, ridicule, alarm and confusion, drowning out anything more Francesco might have wished to say. The Pope stood, lifting his hands and trying to get his aides to restore order – but it was several minutes before the roar died down to sullen grumbling. Still, the Cardinal di Medici seemed less angered by the response than one would expect.

From the depths of a gold-trimmed scarlet hood, blue eyes narrowed in contemplation.

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	6. In Plain Sight

**Title: **In the Name of Power

**By: **S. Arallion

Based loosely on the anime series "Trinity Blood" (originally crafted as a novel by Yoshida Sunao, character design by THORES Shibamoto; turned into manga by Kiyo Kuujou and most recently developed into an anime series produced by GONZO)

**Acknowledgements: **Again, many thanks to my supportive beta-reader, Lael Adair. It takes time to produce such thoughtful critiques, and I truly appreciate your efforts for these last three chapters. On a side note: SQUEEEEE!!!! (Ahem. Okay, done now.)

**Disclaimer:** All characters in this story are owned by their respective copyright holders and authorized licensors —namely, not myself. Anything you don't recognize is my fault. I make absolutely no profit from my use of these characters. --Arallion

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Part 6: In Plain Sight

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Caterina narrowed her eyes in an awkward squint and pulled the hooded cloak up to shadow her face more deeply. Her hair was gathered uncomfortably about her shoulders, heaps of curls squashed beneath the cloak, but this minor irritation was worthwhile; the mass served to further obscure her form.

She had let her monocle slip down to the end of its chain to avoid any telltale flashes off the lens. That, she now realized, had been a mistake. Trying to adjust her eyes for the mismatched refraction was starting to make her woozy. Or perhaps it was just the strain of being pummeled by one of Francesco's bombastic speeches… She wondered how much more unpleasant this would have been had she attended as _herself_.

Not a single one of the gathered prelates had approached her yet, nor even expressed curiosity as to who she was – all were too busy murmuring about the strange and arcane effect Francesco was touting as their salvation. Her half-brother seemed to be relishing the attention, of course, standing by his glowing vision of the future with the grand manner of a king holding court. Caterina snorted faintly, shaking her head.

When it was obvious that no one would be looking her direction, she withdrew quietly around the side of one of the pillars to slip her monocle out of its tiny breast-pocket and back over her eye. Instantly she felt a little better. She looked back around the pillar, gazing thoughtfully at the constantly replaying image; the flare of silvery energy spraying out from the glimmering cross above the dome to encase the city in protective light.

Francesco had certainly been busy… first crippling her department with the removal of one of her prime agents, and now this.

Of course, for _this_ plan, he couldn't have actually set anything into motion yet. Wiring the great cross above the Basilica to produce the effect he proposed would have required scaffolding to be put in place first. There was simply no way to access the cross without it – she knew this because they'd had the structure's integrity checked just after the Silent Noise incident, and that was what had been required. While the inspectors had been aloft, they'd also hired a contractor to come in and clean the cross itself, so that the Vatican would not have to bear that expense twice.

_Wait. He wouldn't have… _

Could Francesco actually have been planning this _that_ far in advance?

It would… horribly enough, it would make sense. Despite their reliance on what technology they had, the Vatican as a whole was still oddly resistant to any experimentation or research into the parts they did not understand. Francesco's restoration of the 'thrust bomb' a few years back had been funded out of his own pocket, and certainly after _that_ failure he would not have gained support for any further experimentation. It made a warped sort of sense that he would have taken the approach that it was better to ask forgiveness than permission.

And if this actually worked in protecting them against an attack… who would fail to forgive him?

Shivering suddenly, Caterina put one gloved hand to her mouth and another to her ear, tapping the communicator on her monocle cuff lightly. "Sister Kate…"

The response was immediate. "Yes, my Lady?"

"I need you to see if you can access the data center in the Room of the Archangel and pull the data from the program that's running right now." Caterina kept her voice soft, watching carefully from under her hood to see if anyone looked in her direction. Usually Kate's remote communications were barely audible from less than a foot away, but in the echoing room, she couldn't be too careful.

There was a brief silence before Kate's voice returned, apologetic. "I'm sorry, my Lady – the machine is currently logged onto the Inquisition's secured system, and I haven't managed to hack in yet."

The Cardinal hissed softly. "Would there be anything left on the data center after they logged out?"

"Unlikely, unless they've copied the material to the hard drive in order to run it," Kate replied. "And if they brought a data disc with them, they wouldn't need to."

"I don't know… I can't tell if they did or not," Caterina grumbled. "Kate, could you patch me to Tres please?"

"Right away."

Tres was only across the room, also dressed in a hooded abbot's robe, but she didn't want to draw attention to their unfamiliar forms by putting them in proximity. The watchful gazes of Brother Petros and Sister Paula, the Inquisition officers, continued to scan the room; she reminded herself firmly to hunch and dodder a bit. _Nothing to see here but a little old Reverend Mother, kind sirs…_

"Lady Caterina – status report."

"I'm fine, Tres. I need you to go to the data center and check to see if this hologram is playing from a disc or not. I'm going to try and get His Holiness' attention."

"Positive," came the bland response, and the disguised android began wandering away from the group, making his way slowly to the raised section and pillar that held the console.

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Petros looked at the blue-white holographic image with narrowed eyes as the din swirled about him, Cardinal Francesco's voice explaining patiently what the delicate-appearing bubble was meant to do. _Is this what the vampire was helping with? _

He wasn't an expert in Lost Technology by any stretch of the imagination, but he did have limited experience with it from working on his own armor. The gleaming silver plate was not, as some assumed, an item issued from the Department of Inquisition itself – although the standard armor was fashioned after it. Rather, it and the knowledge to maintain it had been passed down through his family from the time of Armageddon.

A feat of technological artistry, the Garb of Lord formed a synergy between mind and armor; it allowed the wearer to react as smoothly and easily in the steel encasement as if it were nothing, yet it granted additional force and speed in battle. It also carried a nearly unbelievable resistance to attacks due to a form of internal "shield" generation. That was how Petros had survived the tank assault in Carthage – even though the force of the hacked Goliath's blast had compressed the armor around him, shattering several ribs in the process, the energy shield had deflected most of the damage. The armor had held together, and so had he for the most part.

But such a shield took power – a great _deal_ of power. His armor's reserves had been thoroughly drained by repelling the Goliath's attack, leaving him nearly helpless afterward. It followed that a similar shield, scaled up to protect the five mile radius of the Vatican, would likely need a thousand times more energy than what was used to run the Holy City for a month. And that was only to _generate_ it! Keeping it running through multiple attacks… He shook his head in bemusement, considering that perhaps it was better to leave such speculation to others.

Turning his attention back to the dais, it was clear that Cardinal di Medici had at least some support for his proposal, judging from the number of confused but hopeful-looking clergy remaining. Of course, a few had stormed out immediately after the official meeting had been adjourned; those however seemed to be opposed to Francesco on general principle. Sister Paula stood alertly nearby, her attention seemingly focused on the discussion their leader was engaged in.

The Pope also remained in the thick of the discussion, which surprised Petros a little. He knew it shouldn't have – the seemingly helpless, easily-led boy had been maturing rapidly ever since his harrowing experience in the Ghetto of Albion – but it was difficult to reshape his impressions of the lad. Difficult, even though he'd borne witness to the first stages of that maturity himself…

His Holiness had stopped him from killing one of the Ghetto's vampire leaders. He'd – _incomprehensibly_ - spared the very vampire that had kidnapped him with the intent to use him as a bargaining chip. At the time Petros had been sure it was a mistake they'd regret. Still, it was His Holiness' choice to make. And in adversity, rather than fighting, rather than giving in to hatred… Alessandro _forgave_.

Petros' gaze softened slightly. The incident had brought home to him how truly infinite God's wisdom was. That moment of forgiveness had certainly ended up saving them both as the vampire woman, touched by His Holiness' grace, returned to slaughter the foul monsters that had been sent to slay them. Petros was confident in his skills, but even he would have been hard-pressed to fight well while maintaining a position guarding that small ventilation shaft entrance he'd stuffed the boy into so improperly.

And, later, _she_ had thanked _them_. Whether for sparing her, or for something else, he couldn't quite tell.

It had all been so surreal that no one who knew of the events had really expected the changes in the young Pope to stick. Yet, here the boy was, doing nearly as good a job at politely listening to and absorbing combative viewpoints as his father, the previous Pope, had. It was as if he had a natural instinct for moderation… untrained and still too meekly presented to be fully effective, but in a few more years, perhaps…

A clatter to the side interrupted his musings. The Inquisitorial aide, a dark-haired, baby-faced acolyte, was fidgeting impatiently next to the data center, waiting for the word that would allow him to take the disc out and leave. Apparently the proceedings were uninteresting to this fearless youth. Petros stalked over to him with a sigh.

"You are dismissed, Brother Jacob. I'm sure you have other activities awaiting your attention." Such as a quick snack at the café, and then a walk around the grounds with a young novice of his acquaintance – the young ones did their best to keep these things discreet, but Petros wasn't blind. He kept a close eye on his department, even if he weren't as thorough as he should be about the paperwork involved.

The acolyte bowed, but then hesitated with a glance at the console.

Annoyance seeped into the Chief Inquisitor's tone. "I believe I can manage to remove the disc without your help, Brother."

"Uh – of course! Sir," the young man blurted, flushing in embarrassment. "Thank you sir."

Petros watched as the acolyte bobbed his way into the hallway, narrowly avoiding a disastrous encounter with a tall, delicate stone sculpture of the Blessed Virgin before turning, hitching up his monk's robes and scampering most indecorously away down the patterned stone floor. Idly, the Inquisitor wondered if he were really so frightening, or if the young nun waiting for her beau was simply that lovely.

He caught a flash of brown out of the corner of his eye and turned his head covertly to have a better look. A form dressed in the unassuming hooded robes of an abbot was edging surreptitiously towards the console from around the other side of the pillar. _Strange… I don't recognize this one… _He raised an eyebrow thoughtfully, trying to remember if there had been any highly ranked pilgrims on the visitors list, but to no avail.

_Better safe than sorry._

Returning to the console with brisk, silent strides, the Inquisitor's tall frame loomed imposingly over the other cleric. "Can I help you?"

The figure didn't jump at his proximity, which was surprising. Instead, it stepped back slightly, bowing as a monotone voice responded, "Negative."

Petros' gaze sharpened. _That's the voice of Caterina's Killing Doll, or I'm a vampire._ He looked around the room quickly and spied another unrecognizable figure, meekly loitering at the outskirts of the group talking to Cardinal Francesco.

"So, perhaps her Eminence Cardinal Sforza _is_ in attendance," he murmured quietly, focusing his gaze loosely on the holograph again, so that he could keep the android in his peripheral vision. "What are you doing over here, Father Tres?"

"I am not authorized to share that information," Tres stated, straightening as it became clear that his cover was, if not completely blown, at least pointless for the moment.

Petros was always mildly startled at the android's diminutive height. His predecessor – HC-IIX, assigned to the Inquisitorial Department – was over a foot taller; nearly able to stare Petros in the eye. "Very well. Can you share with me why you've chosen to hide your identities?"

Tres' eyes glinted at him from under the hood, one with a faint reddish tint. "Negative."

The Chief Inquisitor sighed, glancing across at Paula and Francesco. They seemed thoroughly occupied with the group around them. The cloaked figure that he expected to be the Duchess of Milan was nowhere to be seen. He frowned.

"I find it hard to believe that you've both chosen to disguise yourselves merely on a whim, Father."

The android stiffened, almost seeming offended – although Petros wasn't sure he could feel such emotions. "Negative. I am engaged in a mission."

"And what mission, I wonder, would involve an Expeditionary Marshal – within the walls of the Vatican Palace?" The question was rhetorical; as expected, Tres was silent. Petros sighed again, noting absently that it seemed to be becoming a habit.

From what little he knew of Cardinal Sforza's methods of running her department, he could only assume she was probably here to try and speak privately to the Pope about Father Nightroad's incarceration. Why the android was sniffing around over near the data center, however, was a relative mystery. The Shield experiment was a completely separate issue. Still, he supposed that Caterina would take an opportunity to gather information if it presented itself.

"Why, Brother Petros, are you accusing yet _another_ of my agents of nefarious crimes?"

Petros glanced to his right, past Tres. Standing there was the crimson robed figure, the familiar ringing tones – however muted – bringing an odd wash of relief that he'd guessed her identity correctly. "Your Eminence." He bowed slightly, with another cautious glance into the center of the room. "With respect, I see nothing to accuse him of. Still, I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't question such strange behavior." The Inquisitor kept his voice low, and under the deep cowl he could see Caterina's lips purse speculatively.

When she spoke next her hesitation was evident. "If you must know, I need to speak with His Holiness, in private."

And now his other guess had been confirmed as well. The disguises were really not that much of a stretch – if Cardinal di Medici suspected for a moment that his half-sister were present, he would likely not leave the Pope's side until the boy was well and truly tucked away for the night. A private discussion would be impossible. His Holiness looked up to both of his elder siblings but, truth be told, Francesco was simply louder, more stubborn and more aggressive than Caterina, and young Alessandro had almost always given way to him. If Francesco really wanted Nightroad to stay in that cell, he wasn't going to allow Caterina the opportunity to convince the Pope otherwise.

_I'm probably going to have to do penance for that thought,_ the Inquisitor noted with a sour grimace.

It was time to cast aside formality for the sake of brevity. He expected that this woman didn't care much for the platitudes, anyway. "If this is about the Crusnik, I assure you it is for his own good."

"How could torturing him like that possibly be for his own good?" her voice came, low and dangerous.

"My lady, it wasn't torture, it was a test. And now that room gives him the opportunity to practice his control," Petros replied softly. "Nightroad doesn't ever train, does he? Not in that form. And yet, he uses it to defend the Vatican frequently."

To his surprise, the android looked to be bristling faintly. The Cardinal tilted her head up, glaring at him with fierce blue eyes. "You don't understand, Inquisitor. It's not a tool that he can use like a sword or shield. It's a part of him – a part he atones for daily."

"Oh, I realize that," he murmured. "I remember Carthage quite well. But that doesn't absolve him of the responsibility for learning to control it."

"Perhaps. But that is _not the point_, Brother Petros," she responded with uncanny perception. "We need him to help us against Contra Mundi. You should know that as well as I. And if this were truly about training, you wouldn't be forcing him into it by imprisoning him."

He froze carefully; she'd put into words the exact concern he'd expressed when Francesco had told him what the room was for.

_"Don't be ridiculous Petros, Nightroad needs to be contained, and AX seems completely oblivious to his need for better control…"_ He remembered the Cardinal's dismissive wave, unfazed by his question – and strangely undisturbed by the fact that he'd questioned _at all_.

"Brother Petros?" Caterina's voice interrupted his thoughts, urgently.

Francesco was closing his discussion now, the small group breaking up and moving away. Alessandro was getting up in preparation to leave as well. In a moment, Sister Paula would turn and walk in their direction to collect the data disc…

The sense of _wrongness_ that had been plaguing him for weeks, since he'd first learned his orders to take the Crusnik into custody, leapt snarling to the front of his mind.

Really, what harm would it do? After all… it would be the Pope's final decision. His Holiness should be allowed to hear all sides of the issue.

Abruptly, Petros stepped up to the console, startling Caterina into backing away to the side of the pillar – which happened to be out of Sister Paula's line of sight. "Go, my lady," he muttered, before letting out a louder growl of frustration and making a show of fumbling with the controls. She stared at him briefly in confusion, then grabbed the impassive android's robes and backed up rapidly as his second in command came striding over to assist.

"Sir, if I may ask – where did young Jacob run off to?" Paula questioned as she examined the machine, trying to figure out why the disc wouldn't eject.

"I dismissed him," the Inquisitor said offhandedly, returning her sudden glare in kind. "What? He was bouncing around in a quite undignified fashion. I didn't want him to become a distraction, or get himself into trouble. Besides, if they wouldn't move the buttons around so much…" He glowered fiercely at the console, as if it had done something just to spite him.

"Brother, no one _moves_ the buttons," the Vice-Chief sighed patiently, and then blinked, noticing his position, standing with a hand on the interface. "Oh… that's why. This would work better if you'd take your hand off that panel, sir." Obligingly, he did so, and the next button press popped the disc out into Paula's waiting fingers.

"Ah. Thank you, Sister," he said with a nod of appreciation, taking the disc and slipping it into its protective case. Bypassing the hand she held out, he tucked it into a pocket in his vestments. "I said that I would return it, and so I shall," he stated. Paula smiled faintly, shaking her head.

Francesco was, predictably, looking impatient. "Have you quite finished tormenting the projector, my loyal troops?"

"Yes, your Eminence," Petros replied briskly, ignoring the faint chuckle the Vice-Chief gave deep in her throat. "Shall we accompany you back to the chapterhouse?"

The Cardinal glanced over at Alessandro, who was still surrounded by a few clamoring clergymen. "Petros, I would rather ask you to assist His Holiness back to his rooms – it seems that some don't know when they've overstayed their welcome." His lip curled disdainfully.

"Of course," Petros affirmed, bowing deeply and exchanging glances with Paula, who nodded and fell in vigilantly behind Francesco as he swept off down the hall. Drawing a sharp breath, the Chief Inquisitor turned and approached the Pope with a practiced air of intimidation.

According to plan, the six or so remaining pontiffs gave way before him, although they were not entirely dissuaded by his presence; there was unfortunately a limit to how fearsome a glower he could deliver where Alessandro could see it. Even now the young man's face was blanched white as fine parchment, his posture giving the ominous impression that he might run away if the Inquisitor so much as twitched an eyelash. He tried to soften his expression just a bit more. "Your Holiness. I am to ensure your safe return to your rooms, when you are ready."

He heard a soft snort come from somewhere over his right shoulder, and cast a quick glance when he was in mid-genuflection. As he'd expected, it was the crimson-robed 'cleric' and her brown hooded guard.

"Um – right, thank you Brother Petros," the Pope replied, looking less daunted and turning to the remaining bystanders. "With my regrets, revered brethren, I really am quite exhausted after this revelation. Perhaps we can adjourn until tomorrow? After time for prayer and consideration, we may be more receptive to God's direction." He gave them a beatific smile, and Petros was certain that only those who knew him well would see the uncertainty behind it now. Murmuring soft apologies and prayers for His Holiness' rest, the gathered clergy took their leave… with two notable exceptions.

Petros briefly wondered how _exactly_ this was going to work. Was he to allow strangers to join them? And what would the Pope think about that – even if he found out later that it was his sister and one of her agents?

Then he caught the faint uneasy shift of Alessandro's wide-eyed gaze.

_Oh._

Well, this made things a bit easier, except that obviously His Holiness had no idea how to broach the subject of bringing the "strangers" along. Petros' lips quirked wryly. The boy was honest to a fault. Hopefully he'd be allowed to keep that quality for a few more years at least.

"Your Holiness." The Chief Inquisitor's sharp gaze pinned the scarlet-cloaked cleric. "Is this person someone you needed to speak further with?" That ought to be a decent enough shove in the right direction.

Alessandro blinked and stuttered for a moment. "Uh… er… oh. Right, yes. Let's go, then…"

Not exactly the most _confident_ response, but good enough. The Inquisitor gestured formally for the two to join them.

The cloaked form bowed and fell in silently beside Petros, her own escort just behind, as they followed the Pope back to his chambers.

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Abel breathed.

After all, there wasn't a great deal more for him to do. He'd tried the direct approach to find out what the Rosenkreutz officer was planning, but the man had done nothing except to answer his questions with other questions. Then he'd tried a quid-pro-quo approach, trying to direct Kämpfer into a conversation that might result in some clues… and meeting with no better success. It was irritating, to say the least.

He'd never been good at psychology. With this rather bitter reminder, he was quite on the verge of sulking, or having an explosion of temper – he wasn't sure which.

So, rather than give in to either impulse (both having been common reactions the last time he was in a room such as this one; many, many centuries ago) he perched himself on the narrow bed and began to meditate. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. _Stop growling, stomach._ Breathe in -

Isaak, meanwhile, seemed quite content to sit in the observation window and… well, _observe_.

The Rosenkreutz officer's thoughtful gaze did nothing for Abel's ability to concentrate. His mind kept returning to the unanswered questions: How had Kämpfer gotten into the Vatican in the first place? Was his presence hidden, or known? Why was he here at all?

Abel shifted awkwardly. It had been a long while since he'd sat in a cross-legged position, and here he'd done it several times in the span of a few hours… or possibly days… dratted timeless indoor lighting. At any rate, it was more than his long legs were used to, and despite the pliancy of the thin mattress, it was beginning to feel like his toes were falling asleep.

His eyes opened to slits. Perhaps his lack of interesting activity for the last hour had encouraged von Kämpfer to leave…

Fortune was not with him. The man was still comfortably ensconced in one of the seats, gazing right at him with a bland, calculating expression. Annoyed all over again, the priest adjusted the spectacles on his nose and gazed back, forcing a pleasant smile onto his face.

"It's impolite to stare," he pointed out, primly folding his hands in his lap.

His observer smiled knowingly. "Ah, so true. Yet, technically, I am not staring."

Abel's left eyebrow arched in disbelief, and the man chuckled, although the humor never reached his eyes.

"I am perfectly serious. A scientist cannot learn from his subjects if he does not observe them closely, correct?"

"Semantics," the priest sniffed. "Are you likening me to an insect in a jar, or an amoeba on a microscope slide, then?"

Isaak rested his chin on his hand as he leaned forward slightly. The dim lighting cast foreboding shadows over his face. "Perhaps the insect is a closer analogy. You see, the amoeba has no idea that its freedom has been curtailed."

Abel's hackles lifted involuntarily and he struggled to keep from letting the reaction show. "As long as you don't pin me to a plaque and display me on your wall, I suppose that I can't complain," he quipped with a shaky laugh.

Kämpfer chuckled again. "Indeed. I must admit, seeing your version of things is quite refreshing, Abel Knightlord."

White-gloved hands slipped apart and clamped tightly to the edge of the bed. If he had to endure much more of this almost-taunting, he was going to break his own fingers. "What 'things'? And stop calling me that."

"Mmm? Oh. Very well, Nightroad it is." The man rose from his seat, flipping a sleek seal-brown lock of hair back over his shoulder. He leaned closer to the window, bringing his sharp, sculpted features into clear focus as Abel glared up at him. "Do you really want to know?"

Abel gave a snort of bitter laughter. It was so horribly difficult to avoid slipping back into old habits in this environment. "Would I continue to _ask_ if I didn't wish to know the answer?"

The cold eyes gazed down at him, uncannily dead and expressionless, although the flesh around them curved in humor. "Very well. You and your brother are cut from the same cloth, you realize." He ignored the sharp look Abel gave him. "The difference lies in how you deal with that cloth. Master Cain has embraced it, taking the opportunities he has been given to better himself. While you – you resist at every turn.

"It is… quite entertaining." Isaak's long fingers traced languid, indecipherable patterns on the smooth translucency of the window.

"So happy I could provide you with enjoyment," the priest managed to murmur, past a clenched jaw that struggled to hold the bright, naïve expression fixed on his features.

"Not so much enjoyment, perhaps, as intrigue," von Kämpfer responded, his tone almost conciliatory. "By all rights you should have been a bloodthirsty tyrant, given the circumstances. Yet here you are, essentially a servant to those you so despised. Servant, and protector as well. You've gone completely against your purpose – and that, dear Father, is what makes you so interesting."

Abel was taken aback as the words the Rosenkreutz officer spoke sank in. _My purpose? How much does he know - ?_

Isaak sighed. "Unfortunately, I have limited time to spend in observing you, as I have other duties to perform here in the Basilica. And I believe… it is just about time for you to be having another visit from the Inquisition. But I will be seeing you again, Father Nightroad, that I promise."

Silently Abel watched as the observation room panel dimmed. There was a faint click of the communication system turning off, and he was left alone.

Or at least, so it seemed.

With a huff, the priest unfolded his long legs and slid off the ledge, stretching. His mind was chasing its own tail in confusion and such behavior required movement. It appeared that he'd been given more than one mystery to solve, here. And such limited clues…

_You've gone completely against your purpose…_

What was that supposed to mean?

Having been a member of Rosenkreutz, Kämpfer might very well have been privy to some kind of rant from Abel's brother about how his siblings had deserted him before his hour of triumph. From Cain's perspective, that could easily have constituted a breach of Abel's 'purpose'. Still… it almost seemed as if Isaak were referring to something deeper.

Something he couldn't possibly know about… could he?

After all, _that_ purpose had been forsaken long before Isaak would have been born. And it wasn't exactly the sort of thing Abel thought Cain would make known. It was obvious that the self-absorbed Crusnik 01 considered his followers tools, not comrades – human and Methuselah alike – and it was unlikely that Cain would volunteer information that might portray him as anything less than a demigod. "I was created by pre-Armageddon humans over one thousand years ago…" simply wouldn't fit with his carefully crafted image. Heaven forbid that the illustrious Contra Mundi have such a degrading history. It was more likely for Cain to have fostered the impression that he'd simply created _himself_.

Abel sighed, absently tugging on his long tail of silver hair with a frown.

_Playing Kämpfer's game isn't getting me anywhere,_ he acknowledged at last, with a little lurch of misery. If he were to worry about anything, he should be worrying about what Kämpfer had done to be allowed free access to the Vatican, or at least the Inquisitorial Department's prison ward. The man had already proven that he could infiltrate their ranks with relative ease, warping others' ambitions to his own ends. Could he have managed to somehow corrupt Francesco, using the half-brother's suspicion towards Caterina and appealing to his desire for power?

Caterina…

Dear Lord, he prayed that she was all right.

He'd caught a glimpse of her horrified expression in the glass as the Crusnik had drained the life from their hapless victim; a worn and aged reflection of the expression his young partner Esther had worn in Carthage.

_Monster…_

Unlike Esther, Caterina had always known what he was. She'd seen him at what he considered his lowest point, dragging himself despairing and world-weary out of the crypt where Lilith's shell had rested in the care of her beloved Terrans for nine hundred years. It hadn't even been real compassion that urged him to step in and save the frightened human girl from her vampire attackers; he'd only been acting to carry out Lilith's wishes. But when that tiny, fragile hand had slipped into his own bloodstained glove, and those blue eyes – thoughtful even then – met his own with such conscious trust… he had suddenly felt a brief hint of what it was like to be at peace. At peace, for the first time in… Well, perhaps _ever_.

Caterina knew _what_ he was, and knew much of _why_ he was, also. Despite it all, she'd put her faith and trust in him to hold himself together; to represent herself, the AX and the Vatican appropriately. And now he'd betrayed that trust, and seen his employer – no, his _friend_ – collapse before his eyes. Not physically, of course. She was too strong, too stubborn to display that obvious of a weakness. But her eyes –

Abel caught himself just as his fist was about to hit the wall, and laid his palm flat against it instead. _Remembering that moment is not _helping he told himself firmly, forehead coming to a rest next to the white-gloved hand with a small thump. _Trust in her, as she trusted in you. Trust in… trust in Tres and Wordsworth. They are not giving up on you, Abel. Just think happy thoughts, because that's the only thing you can do right now anyway since you're trapped here like a rat in a cage, or… an insect in a jar… _

Thump.

"Ow," he muttered aloud, slightly taken aback by his own masochistic action. It made no sense whatsoever to thump one's head or slam a fist into a wall, yet here he was having an incredibly powerful urge to do just that. Preferably until he passed out.

Or at least until he couldn't feel that bloody rumbling sensation through his boots anymore.

"Stop thinking about it," the priest snapped, and then cringed as the ring of his voice added to the ambient tremor. _Lovely, now you're talking to yourself_. He spun on his heel and stalked back to the bed grimly, only to resume his seat with a defeated sigh.

_What a monstrous liability I've become… _A faint wince followed. _No pun intended._ The bed was far enough from the floor that even _his_ long legs dangled. After a few moments he found himself kicking his heels rhythmically against the platform as another long-buried memory bubbled its way to conscious thought; waiting, waiting for hours while some test or other was being prepared, or resolved, or engaged in. Even genetically engineered children were not suited for such boredom. Although, he'd sometimes welcomed the boredom, in comparison with the tests themselves…

_You've gone completely against your purpose…_

Abel didn't want to go back to thinking about _that_, either. He was so _desperately_ not wanting to think about it that he practically leapt off the bed in excitement when the intercom click occurred. It struck him after the fact that it could actually have been Isaak returning to torment him... but apparently his luck had improved.

"Father Nightroad."

Or… perhaps it was getting worse. That was Paula's voice.

"Er… h-hullo?" He retreated rapidly into the bumbling priest role. _What is_ she _doing here?_

"According to Cardinal Francesco, you are scheduled for penance at this time. Since Brother Petros is otherwise engaged, I will be seeing to the administration of this duty." The cold voice joined an equally cold visage as the observation room lights came on dimly.

Of the two senior Inquisitors, Paula was actually the more daunting to Abel, with her completely emotionless demeanor and calculating approach to battle. The woman was a trained assassin, known as the Lady of Death for a very good reason. Of course, the fact that she dealt her chosen form of death in an outfit that was more undress than dress might also have contributed to his unease… At least in the Vatican she maintained a bit more decorum.

"I – I'm honored, Vice-Chief…" he managed to say warily. She gave him a frozen stare – literally, he thought he might be able to see his breath – and stepped over to the console.

_Oh no._ Was _that_ to be his 'penance'?

"W-wait! What about my Hail Marys? I'm really quite good at them by now, just ask Wordsworth –" the words erupted from his mouth in a panicked babble, and he stumbled awkwardly towards the wall, his only goal to keep her hands away from that cursed panel –

Paula's grey-green eyes shifted to him, watching incuriously as he crashed into the wall and peered through the glassteel panel at her, spectacles askew.

"Please! Don't – "

He didn't expect to see mercy in her eyes. He was not disappointed.

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	7. En Passant

**Title: **In the Name of Power

**By: **S. Arallion

Based loosely on the anime series "Trinity Blood" (originally crafted as a novel by Yoshida Sunao, character design by THORES Shibamoto; turned into manga by Kiyo Kuujou and most recently developed into an anime series produced by GONZO)

**Acknowledgments:** Thanks to all my reviewers for your support and encouragement in continuing this, and to Lael Adair for reading the draft and catching a few oddities.

**Disclaimer:** All characters in this story are owned by their respective copyright holders and authorized licensors —namely, not myself. Anything you don't recognize is my fault. I make absolutely no profit from my use of these characters. -- Arallion

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Part 7: En Passant

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The café shrank after dark.

It sounded strange, but it was true. During daylight hours, the café in the Palazzo Sparta took up a huge amount of space in the square, extending wire-framed tables with brightly colored umbrellas out into what would normally be considered walking space. Passersby wove their way through the maze-like seating area, smelling the aroma of rich coffee and savory food, and more often than not would stop in for a break.

At night, however, most of the external tables were tucked into corners and closed down, leaving only a few available around the café entrance. Glimmering lamplight illuminated each umbrella with a firefly ambience; even inside, the lights were relatively dim and mellow. It was a perfect place for late night contemplation or the occasional surreptitious romance.

It was also a perfect place for what Wordsworth liked to term "covert ops".

The Professor had taken a seat at a table in a quiet corner near the edge of the roped-off section outside. It was slightly colder out than he preferred, but he'd brought a book and some papers to work on – he _did_ still teach at the University of Rome, despite being _in absentia_ more often than not. Thesis papers would occasionally sneak up on him, clamoring to be critiqued and torn apart with copious amounts of red ink. And, truth be told, he found it somewhat cathartic these days to set aside The Enemy of the World in favor of his students' theories on harmonic analysis or the like.

The other reason, of course, was that he only needed to devote a tiny amount of attention to the papers. While looking busy as could be, he could scrutinize all who traversed the square or entered the café.

Nearly an hour and a half had passed since Vespers. He'd slipped into the Basilica at the last moment, standing in the back although his rank and title would allow him to stand closer to the front if he wished. From this vantage, however, he'd been able to keep an eye on all the strange pieces of this puzzle – Francesco, appearing curiously jittery and impatient with the proceedings; Petros, impassive and pious as always; Paula, shooting her superior odd glances when she felt he wasn't looking; Caterina and Tres, well-disguised. _Very_ well-disguised, in fact – he'd only known they were there because Sister Kate had whispered in his ear before he entered the Basilica. Notably absent had been von Kämpfer, but then, he supposed that Francesco's use for a Methuselah didn't extend to inviting one to services.

Wordsworth came out of his musings with a start. At last, he recognized a face from the ceremony entering the café; a young man with a round face and curly dark brown hair, wearing the badge of the Ministry of Sacred Doctrine on the breast of his surplice. The acolyte trotted up the steps, a bit out of breath, and paused to wave at someone inside before crossing into the interior of the café, out of the Professor's direct line of sight. There was a brief commotion as greetings were exchanged – he heard a female voice added to the acolyte's reedy tenor while drinks were procured – and then things settled down. Curiosity piqued, Wordsworth set his pipe down, tucked the red pen into the folds of paperwork and casually walked inside with his half-drained coffee cup.

The slow pace he set allowed him a moment to take in the scene. The acolyte was sitting with his back to Wordsworth, talking to his female companion in an animated manner that suggested he was either quite nervous or quite excited about something. Considering the lateness of the hour, he'd likely been involved in the meeting di Medici had requested. Perhaps he was so enthused by what had happened there that he simply couldn't keep his mouth shut?

Of course, it was equally possible that the boy simply had a horrible case of puppy love, and was gushing on about nothing of interest whatsoever. While that would be unfortunate, Wordsworth silently acknowledged that he certainly couldn't _blame_ him. The girl's sunny blonde hair bounced in smooth waves about her shoulders and neck as she listened with a smile, dark eyes sparkling. Attentive and vivacious, fresh-faced and luminous in her blue novice's habit; the Professor found himself reminded wistfully of Sister Kate, before her tragic accident.

"Ah, madam – another coffee if you would? My cup's gone regrettably cold," he told the woman behind the counter with a winning smile. She was dark-haired and olive-complexioned and knew him as a regular late-night coffee-drinker; she was luckily also one of his best informants when he needed one. Meanwhile, his ears strained to distill the soft voices from the other clinks and rattles that permeated the air.

"...didn't believe it would work, and still don't… His Eminence really made a statement though…. should see it, it's quite impressive… deflection… supposed to come from right out of the cross in the Square…"

The Professor nodded and smiled politely as the counter attendant handed him a fresh cup of steaming coffee, pushing a few more dinars than were required across the counter. The woman looked at him, then at the seated couple, and nodded faintly. With a slight bow, Wordsworth began to carry the cup back out to his seat, taking another opportunity to glance at his quarry.

A murmur of concern came from the novice, her eyes wide and dark in the glow of lamplight.

"No no, it's all right!" From this angle, the sound of the acolyte's protest bounced off the polished wood paneling of the back wall and carried quite nicely. "I was told I could leave… By the Chief Inquisitor himself! It was only high-ranking officials there anyway… I just hope he doesn't erase the disc by accident, Cardinal Francesco would be so peeved…"

Wordsworth forced himself to continue walking with an effort. If that boy was saying what he _thought_ he was saying… that seed he'd planted could have borne fruit more quickly than he'd expected. And that made him incredibly nervous. He didn't really want to get the Chief Inquisitor in over his head; odd as that sounded it was accurate, because subtlety was not exactly something Petros was known to excel at.

Sitting back down at the table, Wordsworth scowled faintly at his book and the pile of un-graded papers.

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Abel watched in dumbstruck horror, his vision tunneling down to Sister Paula's slender, gloved fingers slowly flipping a switch and then moving inexorably to a slider on the panel. The motions couldn't possibly be as slow as they appeared, yet the suspicion of what was coming made everything feel as if it were dragging through cold molasses.

"Please…" he whispered again, although he knew she couldn't hear.

Instead of a gradual ramp-up, this time he was forcibly transformed within a fraction of a second, the sonic frequencies a deadly threnody running through his cringing veins. It gave him only a tiny bit of vicious pleasure to see the Vice-Chief step back in dismay from the window as his features changed in the grip of the nanomachines; he was too busy staggering backwards himself as the wings billowed forth, pulling him off-balance. At least this time he wasn't hitting the far walls, close as he was to the edge of the room.

Stumbling a bit, Abel pulled himself upright again, choking back an agonized cry as the Crusnik nanomachines seized up and resisted the motion. He forced one taloned hand to reach out and scrabble frantically for the curve of the wall, latching on and digging into the pliable surface so that he could drag himself back. His wavering gaze caught a glimpse of Sister Paula's pale face staring down at him with a hint of fear, but he could not bear to look further and ducked his head away, closing his red-tinged eyes.

Closing his eyes did not help, unfortunately. The resonance – and the sensation of his form shifting irregularly under its influence – appeared to be disrupting his equilibrium. Without visual confirmation, he could barely tell that he was still standing upright… A queasy feeling crept up his spine, and he felt a sudden chill as sweat he hadn't known was there began to evaporate in the controlled atmosphere.

Abel fought off unconsciousness with a panicky determination. He was now lodged securely against the wall under the observation window, clinging with both hands; above him the great wings shattered and reformed, shattered and reformed, while the furious blue-white ball of electricity created by the Crusnik roared near the apex of the ceiling. The sound seemed to be intensifying. It was hard to maintain any sort of coherent thought, although he knew that he _must_ – but everything was beginning to center around the pain of the fibrillating nanomachines in his cells. White flashes and dull red afterimages floated in his vision, and he shook his head sharply, only to dig his talons into the wall harder as a wave of nausea hit him from the motion.

It felt as if his entire _body_ were spinning apart.

Gasping, he stared desperately at the wall in hopes that the bland, rubberized surface would anchor his mind as well as his body. He could almost feel the tenuous strands of his sanity fraying and unraveling. Images flickered through his mind unbidden – memories disjointed; fractured and reflecting into themselves like glass falling from a mirror…

_A child's face, garnet-colored eyes far wiser than when they had first met… turning to him with wary excitement as a neatly creased sheet of parchment wavered in slender fingers…_

"Father Nightroad. It's from my grandmother – she's asking me to return to the Empire. I'm sure it won't be for too long, just briefly to check in…" The tone was hesitant, questioning; still, Ion Fortuna, the Earl of Memphis, had an expression of hope on his pale features that Abel hadn't seen for months. He couldn't say no… there was an odd corner of his own heart that was homesick as well. Although how the people of the Ministry of Holy Affairs had come to occupy that barren wasteland, he hadn't a clue…

"_Father Nightroad, are you certain you won't accept my offer of employment? I asked Her Eminence, Lady Caterina, and she maintained that it would be up to you…"_

The soft voice belied the regal bearing of Albion's new Queen; the girl he'd known was still there, uncertain and wistful beneath the heavy gold-embroidered brocades and silks and sparkling jeweled crown.

As always, he noted that the riches paled in comparison to her natural beauty, the fire of her hair, the glimmering sapphire of her eyes. He could feel Ion at his side practically quivering with excitement.

"Your Majesty –"

"_Esther_ –"

"_Queen_ Esther," Abel partially corrected himself with a quirk of a smile. "I'm sorry, we can't." The stab of pain he felt as her hopeful face fell was not entirely unexpected… yet sharper than he'd wanted to believe it might be. He intentionally did _not_ look at Ion, although he could feel the Methuselah's dismayed glance burning into the side of his head.

"He'll be coming _here_, though. You realize that, don't you? Now that the Ghetto has been opened, he'll be coming!" Hope sprang eternal – her eyes were fierce, her tone urgent as she battled to convince him.

He sighed. "It's highly unlikely he'll return. I destroyed what he was interested in acquiring. There's nothing else he wants, here."

"He wants _you_," she pointed out archly, setting white-gloved hands on her hips in a distinct challenge. The spark in her eyes flared brighter, knowing that she'd scored a point.

Unfortunately for her, it merely emphasized why he couldn't remain. Raising his hands in a fair approximation of the oblivious, awkward persona she'd once known, he remarked lightly, "Well, then I suppose I'm in luck, my Lady. After all, no matter where I go, there I am!" The look he directed at Esther over his round spectacles was intentionally daft. His young companion and the Queen exchanged glances, and Esther rolled her eyes with familiar exasperation.

No, he couldn't expose either of them to that sort of danger. Enough that Fortuna was following him around…

"_You can't protect us all, you know." _

The Duchess of Kiev's amber eyes with their catlike pupils bored into his with an intensely serious expression as her words echoed like a death-knell in his head.

_But I have to,_ his mind shrieked. Desperate. Ragged, like he'd swallowed broken glass. Was it possible for a thought to bleed? _I made a promise._ There was something wrong – something felt _very_ wrong, but he couldn't tell – exactly – what. Was it fear? Probably, he admitted to himself. Still, he'd often been afraid for those who worked at his side; those who were dear to him. Something had changed, something fundamental…

He stared at the Methuselah blankly for so long that her fine brows quirked in worry and she grabbed his shoulders. Instinctively, he pulled away, slipping from beneath her hands and catching her wrists in long fingers. With a hiss of surprise, Astharoshe twisted in his inhumanly strong grip to free herself, her eyes wide with confusion before they narrowed purposefully and he found himself on the receiving end of a furious glare.

"Nightroad!" Abel jumped and let go of her wrists, jolted back to reality. Asta's bellow was not something to be taken lightly. "Knock it off!"

He'd not even realized… he'd been so careful in the past, too. What would she be thinking now? "Asta –" he began awkwardly. The nickname was quite deliberate – if anything would distract the easily-irritated Methuselah from his unfortunate slip, he thought _that_ might. She didn't even blink.

"I know what you're trying to do, and it won't work. You've been acting strangely ever since you returned. And the whole 'I was supposed to be dead' excuse is getting old. Explain."

He blinked in genuine surprise, and a little nervousness. Where were the questions that should have been raised by his behavior just now? At least _those_ he had answers for. "Asta, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. I'm fine – you just startled me, that's all."

The Methuselah continued her fierce stare for a moment longer, then sighed, her shoulders drooping. "All right, you don't have to tell me... but if you think that I believe that excuse for a second, you're sadly mistaken, _tovarisch_." Her use of the Methuselah term for 'partner' felt like salt in a raw wound, but he managed to keep his expression smooth.

"Yes, well… I couldn't get your tiger to let go of my pants last time either," he mumbled with a slight grin, remembering his last encounter with the Tigress of Kiev's prized companions. She swatted him on the shoulder and he winced. "Ow."

"Tell me you didn't deserve that," sniffed Astharoshe disdainfully; her eyes, however, glinted with humor.

"Oh no, I can't afford the time in confessional," he admitted with a chuckle.

_Condemn me, Father, for I have sinned… it has been ten days since my last confession, and in that time I watched an entire city die, and a person most dear to me die with it…_

"Abel?"

The soft question carried across the stone paving of St. Peter's Square. The voice reminded him of bells.

He didn't want to think about bells.

He couldn't speak; he could barely summon the courage to stand before her. It was strange. Caterina had always been the symbol of the humanity he would fight to save, to protect. Her shining golden hair, once a riot of untamable curls, was now a carefully tended mane of perfectly coiled locks. Her clear blue gaze, once alight with mischief – that he more often than not gave in to – had sharpened into the contemplative and calculating eyes of a strategist. She'd grown up, and he'd noticed, but only in passing; as the changes took place he merely shifted more and more into the role of the Fool as appropriate to her position of authority. Her changes were simply the embodiment of humanity's greatest gift.

There was a familiar air about her these days, however, that he found himself shying away from, skittish like a beaten horse. He felt the stress rolling off of her in waves, the hope-beyond-all-reason that somehow they might find a bloodless way to resolve the ultimate feud of blood between human and Methuselah. He remembered a pale, perfect face, held aloft by a white glove clutching sleek red hair, another woman who sacrificed everything to try and end this war that was now being resurrected.

He held out his weapon belt, pistol secured in the holster, and his identification card – and Caterina stared at him with blank incomprehension, just for a moment. Then the action registered and he saw the pain enter her eyes, a cloud of shadow polluting her irises. Her lips twisted, her jaw clenched, her hands closed tightly in the folds of her scarlet chasuble.

"Abel… is this really what you want?"

She was talking, pleading yet not pleading, and it was good because he didn't want her to beg. Something inside him had been ripped apart in that hollow, desecrated skeleton of a church in Barcelona. A wound he'd never noticed healing was torn wide once more; it may not have been physical, but he felt it so keenly that he could barely walk. It still unnerved him a little that he wasn't coughing up pints of blood onto the pavement. He hadn't slept in days, for fear of losing himself to the phantom screams that echoed through his mind from a dying city…

_I will protect the humans._

_You can't protect anyone, can you?_

He set the items on the ground before her, and tears spilled forth unbidden behind his spectacles. Yet another in a long, long list of failures. But – if _this_ failure would keep her alive – if his absence would keep them all safe… He had to do this.

"Abel!" she called out as he walked away across the rain-soaked stones. "If it's the killing you regret, then remember: I have killed too!" Her voice was not quite breaking, not quite desperate. He pretended not to hear.

"_Stop thinking those horrible thoughts, Abel."_

He turned from glowering out the expanse of glassteel viewport to glower instead at the speaker, a woman with long, intricately pinned hair the color of fire. He loved her hair – truth be told, he loved everything about her – but he could never say as much to her face. In comparison to this swan, he was but a gangly, awkward, ugly duckling. "How do you know I'm thinking anything at all, Lilith?"

She smiled. "You're always thinking something, Abel dear. And with that expression, I'm surprised there isn't a hole burnt through the window."

He blushed faintly, and then quickly turned back to the window in a vain attempt to hide it. "Fine."

"It hurts you to see them killing each other, doesn't it."

Abel jumped, startled, as the words jolted him like an electrical current. "I do not care. They can do what they like."

"You _do_ care, and that's why you sit up here day after day, getting more sullen and bitter. Abel, just admit it. No matter what you say, you don't really want them to die."

"I _do_." He turned back, eyes flashing venomously, but Lilith's cool green gaze met his without blinking. He pressed on regardless, carried away with his own fervor. "They're a waste of energy. They killed each other over nothing! They created us and then they just left us up there to die! Expendable goods, Lilith, that's all we were to them! Why should they be any more to us?"

Lilith let the echoes of his tirade die, watching him solemnly. "Abel. These people are not the same ones who created us. Their participation in this is as involuntary as ours was. Should the sins of their forefathers condemn them?" She sighed, tilting her head faintly. The motion was elegant, he noticed wistfully. All of her motions were so. "I know you feel this, even though you deride them at every opportunity."

He blinked, and processed her phrasing. Lilith's vocabulary had always been impressive; the right words seemed to flow from her tongue like quicksilver. "I _do not!_"

"And contradict every nice thing I say at every opportunity." She was laughing at him now; the tiny quirk of her lips and mirthful sparkle in her eyes gave it away.

"I do not – ugh. Lilith –"

"Abel," she parroted, but there was no malice in the tone.

Abel sighed, allowing his posture to give away the fact that she'd derailed his sulking quite handily. "I _don't care_ about them." It was a parting shot, just to make sure his intentions were still clear; whether meant for Lilith or for himself, he couldn't quite tell.

"Well… do you care about _me_, then?"

His eyes, half-lidded with irritation, shot open. "Of course!"

"And I care about them. So perhaps _you_ can care about them, through me."

"What?" Abel nearly laughed. "Lilith, that doesn't make any sense."

"Doesn't it?"

Her emerald gaze pinned him to the spot for a long, silent moment. Abel almost forgot to breathe, his heart – normally such a cold, quiet thing – lurching into heavy thuds that echoed through his narrow ribcage and rang in his ears. _It doesn't make sense. It doesn't even matter,_ he tried to say.

But it did matter. And the words stuck in his throat. He was not accustomed to lying… at least, not on purpose.

"I'm with you, Abel. No matter what happens. If you want to keep hating them, that fact won't change. But I wish you'd stop hurting yourself like this." She was earnest, sincere, sad. She was a gentle goddess, and he felt unworthy to be the recipient of her care.

"Why?" he whispered, tears prickling at his eyes…

"_Do you have to ask, really?"_

He gazed sadly at the red-haired girl – for despite her actions, she was _still_ little more than a girl. She stared back at him in confusion, barely able to shake her head. All the fierce bravado she'd displayed earlier in the church, defending that which she'd thought most important, had drained away, leaving a hollow, broken shell.

That too, was the price of revenge.

"It's because… I am your friend."

The blank, stunned expression he received at once saddened and chilled him. It was like gazing into a mirror… except their positions were reversed. Could he actually keep this child from going down the path he'd chosen then?

She was silent long enough that his heart sank – perhaps it was too late. And then her face shifted, the eyes that had been dull and weary suddenly gaining a spark of understanding. "Father Nightroad…"

_Rage._

So close… I was so close to sleeping for eternity. Who woke me? I heard Tres' voice… "Mission accomplished." What had he done?

_Pain._

I want to sleep again. I can't join _her_, of course… but oblivion itself would be a nice change…

_Why did you wake me?_

"Stay away!"

A female voice, ragged and raw. I don't recognize it. Or… perhaps I do… a name bubbles to the surface…

_Esther?_

My heart remembers this girl. But… my heart is gone, destroyed. My brother took it. Like he took -

"Now then, Abel." That voice…

No.

_Hate._

Esther… Lilith…

I don't want to care anymore. Caring hurts.

_I'm so tired…_

They promise me that they can destroy him, and if it costs me my existence, it is worth it.

…_one hundred percent – _

_No! _

He thought he might have screamed the denial, but the nanomachines' anguish had frozen his larynx and it was unlikely that he could make any sound beyond a relatively dismal squeak. Still, the jolt of fear that the last memory had provoked brought him back to reality before his tortured body could muster a physical response and actually try to force his powers beyond the limit they were being raised to. Gasping for air, he focused on the curve of the wall again, but it was fuzzy, phasing between the blue before his nose and a pale memory of sterile ecru and ivory.

Abel shook his head sharply in an attempt to clear it, but the motion only sent jolts of pain crashing through his skull. The room spun in a whirl of blue and green, and he gagged, doubling over to put his head between his knees before the nausea overwhelmed him.

_Penance, indeed…_

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Sister Paula Sokołowska was not happy.

She'd not risen to the position of power she held in the Vatican, as the Inquisition's second in command and essentially the main administrative officer, by being squeamish. However, she'd not been prepared for the radical change triggered by her activation of the sound system, either. Nightroad was usually such a docile, harmless-looking man – but this… this was a nightmare come to flesh.

She supposed that he was still uncannily passive, considering the circumstances. Now that her initial horror and revulsion had passed, Paula felt easier about stepping close to the observation window, looking down on the shuddering form of her prisoner with a more clinical eye.

_Crusnik._

It looked more like a demon, really. Blue-grey skin; gleaming red eyes; long, sharp talons and fangs; that horrendous gore-twisted scythe; and the sickeningly shifting wings – not to mention the sheet of lightning that roared out from between those wings. If it hadn't been for the AX uniform the priest still wore, she would have found it difficult to recognize him in this shape. And if she'd met something like this on the field… well, either she or it would be dead now. If it were even possible to kill a thing like this…

Briefly, she wondered what the Cardinal di Medici had thought of Caterina's monster. She knew that he and Petros had been down here earlier in the day, to prove to Caterina how unfit Nightroad was to walk free.

A part of her wished that Francesco had not asked her to ensure this night's regimen was carried out. But it was clear they had limited time to work with, and their superior had concerns about how quickly Caterina had found out what had happened to her agent. They'd expected to have at least a day, if not more, before word got out, but somehow the canny Minister of Holy Affairs had gotten wind of it within the hour.

Francesco had not exactly kept his suspicions as to the origin of the leak private, either.

Paula sighed to herself, tugging absently at the collar of her Inquisitorial cassock. She'd done what she could to deflect the Cardinal's pointed questions. There were only so many opportunities to confront a person in the Vatican proper with any degree of privacy, after all. It was quite possible that Petros had ended up arresting Nightroad right inside the Palazzo Sparta, where anyone looking out the windows might have seen the situation.

Brother Petros had been, as usual, patently oblivious to the thinly veiled questions. He'd been so thoroughly _dense_ today, in fact, that she was beginning to get concerned. She stared down at the shivering Crusnik without really seeing it, drumming the fingers of one hand on the ledge of the window.

_Petros, what were you thinking?_

At times like this, she really wished it were possible to just knock the Knight of Destruction out and hide him in a closet for a week, until the events that were guaranteed to offend his sensibilities blew over. Working around him in this manner was nearly impossible. She scowled and shook her head in irritation – then caught her breath in a gasp as her eyes focused on the inside of the chamber.

The electrical lightshow had diminished, and the Crusnik was now doubled over, retching violently, twitching as if he were in the throes of a seizure. More than just his wings seemed to be shifting and dematerializing now – she could swear she was looking right through his _body_. And was that _blood_ he was choking on?

"No!" Paula hissed in dismay, frozen in place as a dozen thoughts collided in her head at once. What if he died? Where did that leave the plan? Was it the vampire's doing – that so-called 'refugee' from Albion's Ghetto? Could this have been a trap all along?

Or had she done something wrong when setting up the routine – something that _caused_ this? And if that were the case, what would happen to _her_?

Instinctively, her hand darted to her communication earpiece. "Brother Petros! Emergency in the secured ward!"

The click of the return connection was followed by Petros' stern, but oddly calming voice. "Vice-Chief, report. What's going on?"

She took a deep breath, vaguely dismayed at what she'd done, but it was too late now to change things. "Nightroad is not well, sir – I think something's gone wrong with the sonic generator."

There was a startled silence. Then, "Did you turn it off, Sister?"

Paula blinked. "R-right. Doing that now, sir." Now _she_ felt dense. And angry, because she'd let her unease get the best of her.

"Slowly please – don't shock his system too much."

"Right." She cringed internally, and started pulling down the sliders, far more slowly than she'd turned them up. It seemed that the misty, see-through effect was going away, but the priest-turned-monster was still looking awful.

"When you've done that, open the security door to the left and go down the stairs. At the base of the stairs should be another window, and a drawer that will open out into the chamber. There's also a cooler unit on the wall in front of you. Open the cooler and take out two – no, make it three of the vials you find there. Open the vials and place them in the holders in the drawer, then push the green button you find to the left of the counter to send the drawer through." The instructions were rattled off with brisk precision, broken only by a faint huff and echoing clatter that she presumed was the Chief Inquisitor launching himself down a flight of stairs and being forced to catch himself without the aid of his armor.

"Sister? Did you catch all that?"

"Yes, sir." She shook her head to clear it, frowning, and quickly began to follow his instructions, swiping her identification card to open the door to the left of the room and skidding down the curved stairs. She opened the cooler unit and stopped in surprise. "It's blood?"

"Methuselah blood, yes."

Paula blanched white and gingerly extended a hand to pull out the vials one at a time, removing the stoppers and placing them in the circular holders built into the pass-through drawer. She hit the green button and watched as a panel slid into place between the contents of the drawer and her side of the room, and then as the drawer was pushed out into the main chamber. "All right, it's – "

Almost instantly, the Crusnik's sharp features turned towards her – toward the contents of the drawer, she reminded herself, fighting the urge to press backwards into the wall. But whereas earlier she'd seen human expression in the creature's face, this time there was _nothing_ – nothing but blank hunger. It was almost like looking at a completely different being.

She thought that perhaps she liked the other one better…

The air in the chamber seemed to be filling with a fine sooty fog, and it was becoming hard to see the Crusnik's form. What was going on in there?

"Vice-Chief? Sister Paula. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine – it's done – but something _else_ is wrong now." She couldn't quite keep the frustration out of her tone. This was supposed to have been a quick, uncomplicated procedure… "There's some kind of… gas… in the chamber. It's clouding the windows and I can't see what's happening with Nightroad. I don't think he's able to move in order to get to the vials."

"That's why I had you open them, Vice-Chief." Petros' voice sounded clipped, but relieved. She couldn't imagine why. "Don't worry about the cloudy windows; everything should be fine in a moment. Let me know what you see when it clears. I'll join you shortly."

The communication shut off with another click, and Paula stared at the darkening window in disbelief.

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**Note: **For those unfamiliar, 'En Passant' _(from the French for 'in passing')_ is used in chess to denote the occasion when a pawn uses the two-square first move and brings itself parallel with an opposing pawn, in essence moving through a threatened space. On the next turn, the opponent may choose to capture the intrepid pawn if so desired. It is the only occasion in chess where a piece may capture but not move to the square of the captured piece. The right to capture is forfeit should the opponent not capture immediately.


End file.
